A QUESTION OF TOMORROW
by Scarlet Garter
Summary: Thrown back in time, Chance joins CC of the 1920s to neutralize a murderous husband. With their client safe, Chance wants to return home. Many OC's including Nikola Tesla.  Maybe T plus   No smut, but some salty language and lascivious thoughts
1. Chapter 1

7

A QUESTION OF TOMORROW

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**:

This is not the customary Human Target story. It is a variation on the series, featuring the Christopher Chance who died in 1927, with our Chance literally along for the ride. The writers of the series believed it was important for earlier incarnations of CC to be recognized. (See Season 1's episode "Christopher Chance".) This is my take on what might happen if our Chance and CC-1927 were to connect across time.

The method I use for these men to work together may at first seem awkward to read or difficult to comprehend. Please don't give up.

When they are speaking out loud, I use double quotes ( " ).  
>When communicating mind-to-mind, I use single quotes ( ' ).<p>

Feel free to skip to the last chapter, once it's posted. Perhaps you'll find it sufficiently intriguing to prompt you to read the entire story from the beginning.

Reviews are most welcome regarding this spin-off of our beloved show.

* * *

><p>PROLOG<p>

San Francisco, California

(the present)

Grunting with effort, Winston squeezed through the too-small gap left between the passenger door and the power pole their vehicle had slammed into. He splashed through the puddle they'd skidded to a stop in. It never rains in California, says the song, but when it did, streets became oil-slicked toboggan runs interspersed with ankle-deep pools of run-off.

Chance couldn't help grinning. Guerrero had wriggled through the same opening with the ease of an eel, laptop clasped to his ribs like a kid's favorite teddy bear. Carrying her purse and shoes, Ilsa had exited the rear door as if stepping down from a throne. She stood on the opposite side of the street, someone holding an umbrella over her as she opened her cell phone. Satisfied everyone was safe, he was about to climb out himself when he heard the groan of tortured metal. A moment later, the power pole they'd hit crashed into the street.

Definitely time to move. Chance slid across the rear seat, preparing to exit through the same door as Ilsa. As his foot left the car he heard someone yell "Chance! Wait! The power line - "

C R A C K !

Chance's foot splashed into the spreading puddle at the same instant one of the severed cables, twisting and gyrating like a maddened anaconda, flopped into the water. Chance felt every muscle in his body seize, then the world went black.

... ... ... ... ...

From a viewpoint several feet above where his crumpled body lay, Chance watched people scramble to the rescue. He wanted to tell them not to bother. He rather enjoyed the sense of freedom drifting above the street brought. He couldn't feel the rain. Couldn't feel anything, really, except for a floating sensation. Kind of like riding inside a soap bubble.

He watched Ilsa. Although white-faced, she spoke to the 911 dispatcher as if giving a lecture on business ethics. Guerrero, fingers flying over his laptop keys, had hacked into the power company's computer and transmitted a cut-power order to the neighborhood substation before any of the horrified onlookers thought to look up Pacific Gas and Electric's emergency phone number.

One of the stickball-playing kids Guerrero had swerved to miss handed Winston a length of wooden broom or rake handle. Using the handle, Winston snagged the writhing power line and swept it from the puddle. It fell near the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians, and continued to twist and sputter until Guerrero's cut-power order abruptly killed it.

He watched a man in jogging garb drag his body from the water and begin chest compressions. Don't bother, Chance wanted to say. I see an old friend I want to say hello to. He's standing in the most beautiful light….

In the distance, sirens wailed.

* * *

><p>CHAPTER 1<p>

Saint Paul, Minnesota  
>Wednesday, August 12<br>1925

Chance awoke with the most gawd-awful hangover he could remember ever suffering. His mouth felt like a desert arroyo in August. Tasted like a cesspool. His eyes refused to focus. His head pounded as if Satan himself were inside it, hammering on an anvil.

When his vision steadied enough to let him see across the room - not his room, he realized - his gaze found a woman standing with her back to him. Tall, slender, dark hair. Wearing some kind of filmy kimono or dressing gown.

"Ilsa?"

The woman turned and answered, but Chance was focused more on his own voice than her reply. It sounded deeper than usual and somehow gravelly. Great. If a hangover wasn't enough, he was also catching a cold.

Now that she faced him, he saw it wasn't Ilsa with whom he'd apparently spent the night. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He'd think about it later. A tomorrow question. A right-now question was more important.

"This may sound cliché, but…who are you? And where am I?"

"I'm Masie. And you're at Nina Clifford's. Where else?"

_That tells me everything_.

Chance squirmed, trying to sit up without having his head topple off and go rolling around the room. Nothing worked right. How the hell much had he drank? _What_ had he drank? Good liquor never left him feeling like this. He didn't remember a thing.

When he at last got himself propped against the brass headboard, he scrubbed his palm across his face to jump-start his memory. Accompanying his usual overnight crop of whiskers was a fully grown mustache.

His fingers paused, examining the brushy growth. It felt real, not part of a disguise.

"How long have I been here?"

"Long enough you'll have to pay for an all-nighter, Honey. I hope you got cash, you know Nina's rules. No IOU's."

"Pay…?" Chance echoed. "All-nighter?" It sounded like he'd somehow woke up in a whore house. And nothing the woman said explained the mustache. When did he decide to grow one?

"Where's my wallet?"

His voice still sounded strange. His usual perfect coordination simply didn't exist. Trying to sit up, he had to think about each movement. When Masie handed him his pants, his hand stopped an inch and a half short of the garment when his fingers closed.

He tried again, this time successfully. Then he almost dropped them.

They looked like something from a costume shop. Good quality wool, although somewhat worn. A fine pinstripe woven into the fabric. Loose, almost floppy legs with turned-up cuffs. No belt loops. You didn't need a belt with wide black suspenders. Button fly? Who put a button fly in dress pants? They looked about three inches too short.

"These aren't mine."

"Well, Honey, they don't fit me," Masie said. "And they didn't come strollin' in here on their own. You may be a booze-hound, but you're a clean booze-hound. Nina doesn't tolerate unwashed mopes."

He found the wallet in a front pocket after pulling a small silver bottle that gurgled from one of the rear ones. The term hip-flask came to mind.

The wallet was fine leather, maybe ostrich skin. It folded in thirds and opened to a complicated arrangement of flaps holding the contents in place. He found scraps of paper with notes scribbled on them, a document embossed with some kind of official seal, several business cards for Twin C Detective Service. When Masie's toe began to tap, he curtailed his exploration and concentrated on extracting the odd currency.

The billfold contained a generous mix of twenties, tens, and fives - all of an out-of-proportion size, all printed with pumpkin colored ink on the reverse. He would have called it funny money except it felt absolutely authentic. Was he in a foreign country? Would the…lady accept it?

"How much?"

"Same as always, Honey. Twenty-five smackeroos."

He thumbed out a twenty and a five, then added a second five, which Masie tucked between her breasts.

"Thanks. Now get dressed and am-scray. The maids've done every room but this one."

_Am-scray? Oh, yeah. Scram. Pig-Latin._ His grandfather had taught him the trick and called it their secret language.

Something white sailed through the air and landed atop his legs when his reflexive grab missed. It was the strangest garment he'd ever seen, a combination of knee-length drawers and attached short-sleeve top that buttoned from neck to crotch.

Union suit, something in the recesses of his mind supplied. Summer weight. Winter ones were wool with long sleeves and ankle-length legs. The Forty-niners wore them. Miners, not the football team. Gramps must've mentioned it, once upon a time.

Okay, I get it, Chance mused. This is a dream. I didn't _really_ wake up with a pounding head, in a strange bed, with someone else's wallet and clothes. I just _dreamed_ I woke up. I'm still asleep, with Carmine curled up on the end of the bed where he isn't allowed but sneaks up anyway.

He felt with his foot for the 75 pounds of snoozing dog he was sure he'd sense even in his sleep. Oddly, his toes didn't reach the end of the bed.

_No matter. I'll just go along for the ride and see where it takes me. _ At least Masie hadn't - so far - morphed into Baptiste or performed any other nightmarish transformations. The way she watched him, though, smiling in anticipation, made him distinctly uneasy.

"Um…a little privacy here? And where's the bathroom?" Damn, he hoped he didn't dream he found it and….

**… … … … …  
><strong>

Carrying the rest of his clothes, Chance made his way to the end of the hall. The furnishings in the rooms he passed, visible through open doors on either side of the hall, left no doubt what sort of establishment he hadn't yet woken up in. At least it was a high class brothel. He'd seen worse.

The bathroom was done in black and white and smelled of pine disinfectant. White pedestal sink. Black and white geometric print shower curtain. A shower stall he yearned to stand in and rinse for an hour. Tiny white and black hexagonal floor tiles. Nothing too strange there, but the toilet looked like a prop for a Charlie Chaplin movie.

The bowl with its black enamel seat was three-fourths the size he was used to. A pipe connected the bowl to a rectangular porcelain tank mounted on the wall at eye level. A chain you pulled to make it flush dangled from one side.

Great reproduction pieces, Chance thought. Or they would be if I weren't dreaming all this.

He used the john and pulled the chain, setting off a gurgling swoosh of water and a knocking of distant pipes. Then he moved to the sink, and the black lacquer framed mirror above it.

What he saw made his knees buckle. He clutched the sink to keep from dropping to the floor. The face wasn't his.

Nor was he dreaming. A shock that severe would jolt him from the soundest slumber. He forced himself to look in the mirror again, hoping the image he'd glimpsed was the product of an alcohol-fogged mind. Or a damn good disguise he'd forgot to remove before climbing into bed. In a brothel.

Not his. The face was as Irish as they came, with hair, eyebrows, and neatly barbered mustache the color of an Irish setter's burnished coat. Freckles across the nose and cheeks gave it an entirely too youthful look, as did the nice square chin with its dimple. A few acne scars, but good teeth - which needed a morning brushing even more than his body craved a good hot shower.

In the cabinet behind the mirror he found Dr. Lyon's Tooth Powder but no brush, a tin of aspirin, and a half-full bottle of Listerine. Gratefully he swallowed four aspirin, and rinsed his mouth with a hair-raising jolt of Listerine.

Someone rapped gently on the door.

"Christopher, Masie said you're acting rather strange. Are you okay?"

_No_.

He unlocked the door. A slender, middle-aged woman in a navy calf-length dress-suit gave him a motherly smile. Her snow-white hair was piled atop her head and secured with hammered silver combs. Her ears twinkled with diamonds, as did her bosom, wrists, and almost every finger on each hand.

"Do I know you?"

"Oh, my, you certainly did tie one on, didn't you? Did you spend the entire advance I gave you?"

Recalling the thickness of the wallet in 'his' pants, Chance said, "I don't think so."

The woman clucked her tongue. "Far be it from me to tell you your business, Duckie, but you know how desperate Althea's situation is. It might behoove you to…cut back on bootleg hooch until the problem is resolved. Get something good from my cellar next time."

"I'll do that," Chance said. "I'm gonna head straight home and get right on…Althea's problem." If he could determine what Althea's situation was. Hell, he didn't even know where home was. Or who this woman - he guessed the madam - was. Was she his - or someone's - client?

Her gaze sharpened, rather like a cat's who'd spotted a careless rodent. "Whatever's happened to your brogue? Have you been taking speech lessons?"

He'd never spoken with a brogue in his life, unless it was part of a disguise. Had he just blown a cover he'd forgotten he was maintaining?

"Mrs. Clifford?"

A voice calling from down the hall saved him from answering. A smooth as honey, deep-for-a-woman's voice that set every fiber in his body vibrating. One of Mrs. Clifford's ladies?

"There's a boy here with some gowns you ordered for the girls. Do you want me to pay him?"

"I'll be down in a minute. I want to inspect them first." She turned back to Chance. "Don't forget to collect your shoulder holster on your way out." She studied him again. "You do look rather peaked. Shall I telephone for a taxicab to take you home?"

What address would he give the cabbie? Then Chance remembered the business cards for Twin C Detective Service tucked inside his wallet. Those at least told him where to find 'his' business, but he didn't want anyone to catch him examining them.

"No, thanks…Mrs. Clifford. I think I need to walk. Let me finish dressing and I'll get out of your hair."

Now she looked truly puzzled. One be-ringed finger lifted toward her pompadour. Then her face cleared and she shook a finger at him.

"You sheiks and your silly lingo. Out of my hair. That's a good one!" Shaking her head, she started down the hall, sturdy heels thunking.


	2. Chapter 2

5

CHAPTER 2

St. Paul, Minnesota  
>Wednesday, August 12<br>1925

It wasn't San Francisco outside.

Or maybe he'd blundered onto a movie set.

He stood on the entry steps of a long, narrow, red brick building, one of many two and three story buildings lining the cobblestone street. Tall telephone poles festooned with cross arms and strung with thick black cable marched along the street as far as the eye could see. Opposite, he spotted a sign proclaiming the grounds 'Property of St. Paul Gas and Light Company'.

"Jesus H. Christ," Chance muttered. _Minnesota_? It _had_ to be a movie set. From the handful of automobiles parked or chug-chugging down the street - Model T's? - the movie was set sometime in the 1920s. That explained the clothes. But it explained nothing else.

It certainly didn't explain the business cards bearing _his_ name as provider of "private security and confidential inquiries" by agents who possessed "skills surpassing both Pinkerton and Burns." Pinkerton's and Burns had been absorbed by other huge security providers decades ago.

Mind spinning, Chance descended the steps and began following the sidewalk. Common sense told him this was no movie set. No camera crews could be seen, no cast standing around awaiting their cues. Piled up trash between buildings and horse droppings in the street produced an aroma light-years beyond any movie set's need for authenticity. He noticed the other men he encountered all wore suit coats and hats. A few annoyed glances cast his way convinced him he'd better put his on, too, despite the heat. Besides, it helped hide his shoulder holster.

It occurred to Chance that if it somehow was the Twenties, specifically 1927, he was in deeper shit than being caught in some kind of time-slip. The first known Christopher Chance died in Minneapolis - right across the river - in 1927. He didn't remember how the man died. Odds were against it being from old age. Someone might be waiting to run him down, or blast him with…with a Tommy gun! His fingers slipped inside his jacket to brush the shoulder-holstered Colt model 1911 Mrs. Clifford had said was his. It might not have the magazine capacity a Tommy gun possessed, but this baby's .45 caliber slugs had stopping power the Tommy could only dream about. In a fair fight, he could hold his own.

Reaching the not yet open for business Bucket of Blood Saloon, he stopped to gape. Advertising signs offered Coca-Cola - 5¢, Nesbitt's sodas, or "Near Beer". This was the Prohibition Era. Beer and hard liquor were banned by the Volstead Act. Bootleg booze was plentiful enough if you knew where to acquire it. Somewhere in San Francisco, Gramps, much like the boy who'd delivered the dresses to Nina Clifford's, was running errands to help support his widowed mother. Remembering Gramps, probaboy delivering bootleg booze.

None of this could be real. But it was. As real as the Model T's rolling by. As real as the mounted policeman giving him the eye as his horse sauntered along, tail swishing flies. As real as the issue of the _St. Paul & Minneapolis Appeal_ he bought for a nickel at a corner news-stand. The issue dated Wednesday, August 12, 1925.

That's good to know, Chance thought. If I've somehow become the Christopher Chance who died - make that dies - in 1927, at least I have a couple of years to get used to the idea.

The address on the business cards meant nothing, but his feet seemed inclined to carry him away from Washington Street. Walking along, he began to experience flashes of memory. Guerrero rounding a corner. Kids playing in the street in the rain. Guerrero swerving, sideswiping…something. Stepping from the car. A sound like the crack of the world's largest bullwhip.

Then he awoke in someone else's body.

Good thing I read a lot, he told himself, or I'd think I've lost my mind, not just had it…transplanted.

He remembered an article about a girl who'd suffered a high fever, and when she recovered, was a different person. Called herself a different name - refused to answer to her 'own'; claimed to be a different age; insisted she had a husband and children in a nearby town. If he remembered correctly, the girl later on nearly drowned. When she was resuscitated, she was her original self, with no recollection of the Other who briefly occupied her body.

Chance wondered what became of the other entity.

Why was he here? Was it mere happenstance he'd appropriated Christopher-27's body? Why not Christopher who died in 1954 or Christopher who died in 1975? Why not John Dillinger? Why not Wyatt Earp?

He came to a street where large but rather run-down Victorian houses made up what must have once been a pleasant, affluent neighborhood. Now, most houses needed paint, some roofs had lost shingles, and all the yards looked neglected. Dandelions going to seed and ragweed in full bloom pushed up through dry, overgrown grass.

Nearly every yard or porch bore signs proclaiming 'ROOMS' or 'ROOM AND BOARD', some by week, others by month. A few included 'Theater Folk Welcome'. Elsewhere, it would seem, they weren't. Farther along, several 'Mom and Pop' businesses occupied the ground floor of houses where the proprietors lived upstairs. He spotted signs for a tiny market offering meat, milk, eggs and sundries, a milliner's, tailoring and alterations, candy and cigars, another news stand.

Chance found himself opening a gate to a rambling, two-story structure where a brickwork path led to the front porch. Eight mailboxes flanked the front entrance. A business card matching those in his wallet was affixed to number six. The notation "upstairs" was hand-lettered in black ink.

As he opened the front door, a female voice greeted him. "Mr. Chance. You're yust in time. I'm collecting the rent and my books show you two months in arrears, by Yimminy."

Twin C Detective Service must not be doing too well.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Gustav," Chance said, patting his hip for the oversize wallet before remembering it rode in a front pocket. "I've all that and then some."

He heard the brogue Mrs. Clifford mentioned creeping into his voice. He wondered how he knew his landlady's name. The Christopher Chance whose body he'd appropriated must still be in there somewhere. And probably mad as hell.

**… … … … … **

At the door with the red and gold TWIN C DETECTIVE SERVICE sign - the C a huge Old English capital embellished with gilded highlights - Chance pulled a key ring from his pocket. He chose the largest key and tried it in the lock. Perfect fit.

He stepped cautiously into the room, ready to pull the automatic. Although he'd mastered walking in someone else's body, he felt awkward. Unbalanced. If someone were waiting for him….

Nobody was. He made a quick inspection just to make sure.

Christopher-27 had divided a fairly spacious room into a combination office and dormitory by placing a folding screen between public area and private. The public portion held a mis-matched desk and chair, visitor's chair, a couch, filing cabinets and a book case. His sleeping area held an army cot, wardrobe, and dresser. Shaving gear and the same pitcher and bowl combination you saw in cowboy flicks were arranged on a dry sink. The room possessed a single overhead electric light fixture, but the lamp resting on a nightstand beside the bed used kerosene.

He found a window that actually opened. He pushed it up to release some of the built-up heat. No air conditioning. No bathroom. Probably down the hall like at Mrs. Clifford's. Chance couldn't quite make himself peer under the cot to look for a chamber pot, but he'd bet one was there.

Christopher-27 kept his personal effects considerably neater than Chance did, but shared an equal fondness for books. The office bookcase held an almost even mix of technical manuals and fiction, novels by Fitzgerald, Conan Doyle, London. A framed, autographed photo on the wall of World War I ace pilot Eddie Rickenbacker reminded him that at this very moment Charles Lindbergh was probably flying his air-mail route for the U.S. Post Office and dreaming of flying nonstop New York to Paris. It made the hair on the back of his neck quiver.

He turned his attention to the desk. A manila folder lay on top, the name Macklin, Althea printed on the tab.

Since I'm occupying Christopher-27's body, the least I can do is look into the urgent problem Mrs. Clifford hired him to resolve, he thought. Althea's problem. Althea. The name made something inside him glow like a miniature sun, then in the next heartbeat shrivel with alarm.

As Chance reached for the folder, a wave of dizziness rushed over him. He staggered to the couch and collapsed onto it as the room spun in dizzying circles.

'Who are ye, blast it! What are ye? What're ye doin' in me head?'

The words were as clear as his own thoughts. The brogue thick enough to cut with a knife. The outrage unmistakable. How in hell do I answer him, Chance wondered.

'Forget your bloody answers, just get out!'

"I wish I knew how," Chance said. "Can you hear me? Understand me? Even when I don't speak out loud?"

'Of course I can hear and understand! You think I'm some kind of mope?'

"Then let me try to explain - "

'Save yer explainin' fer them as want to hear it, ya bloody parasite!'

**… … … … … **

"You gotta stop yelling," Chance said when Christopher, who had found his voice, showed no sign of winding down, "you're making our headache worse."

That brought the tirade up short. Preventing it from starting in again took all Chance's persuasive skills and some mental gymnastics he never knew he possessed. As best he could, understanding as little as he did, Chance filled Christopher in.

"If you'll give it some time, I think this will all sort itself out." He hoped he wouldn't have to half drown himself to accomplish it.

"There's one wee problem with givin' it some time," Christopher said. "Me client doesn't have any. Her husband plans to bump her off. He's put a price on her head."


	3. Chapter 3

8

CHAPTER 3

Saint Paul, Minnesota

Monday, August 10

1925

**(2 DAYS AGO)**

Christopher Chance sat at his desk, one finger stroking his mustache as he stared at the pile of unpaid bills. He owed for everything from the telephone subscription - his private line a terrible but necessary expense - to the long-suffering mechanic down the street who replaced the shot-to-hell radiator on his Tin Lizzie after the last investigation went awry. He was behind in his rent. Widow Gustav, with three unmarried daughters, tended to indulge her bachelor boarders, but a wise man never tried his landlady's patience too long.

The numerals neatly inked in the open bankbook beside the stack of bills wouldn't cover the half of his debts.

He could go back to Pinkerton's, he supposed. He'd been one of their best agents, and they paid a handsome wage. He still kept in touch with their Minneapolis office, trading tidbits of information for access to their Rogues Gallery and occasional glances through their files.

With the advent last year of the Department of Justice's new Bureau of Investigation, Pinkerton's position as an unofficial national police agency was rapidly slipping away. Christopher's heart wasn't in the type of assignments - union busting and…what was the term? Industrial espionage - Alan Pinkerton II was steering the business toward. Those who could afford Pinkerton's fees for private protection weren't the people he had vowed to help.

The problem was, the people he wanted to help could seldom afford the nominal fees Twin C Detective Service charged, even when he accepted barter in lieu of cold hard cash. Since opening his own office, he remained solvent by bounty hunting. Lately, pickings had been slim.

Although Chief of Police John O'Connor had retired in 1920, the system he devised to free St. Paul's streets from criminal depredations remained very much in place. O'Connor's present successor, 'Dapper Dan' Hogan, ruled the operation with a kid-gloved iron hand.

As long as bank robbers, extortionists, rum-runners, even kidnappers broke no laws in St. Paul, they were safe from arrest. From extradition. And from bounty hunters. Minneapolis authorities were somewhat less reluctant to lock up criminals, but even across the river, more than one yegg or grifter he'd brought in 'escaped' before the reward money was tendered. Christopher had to venture far afield to track down criminals without incurring the wrath of police and politicians making a tidy profit from hoodlums living free as a breeze in sanctuary towns like St. Paul.

When the telephone bell jangled its shrill summons, he jumped like he'd taken a jolt from that crazy inventor Tesla's energy coil he'd been reading about.

Holding the candlestick telephone's receiver close to his ear with one hand and grasping the stand with the other, he answered, "Hello - Twin C Detective Service."

"Is that you, Christopher?" came a distant voice he recognized despite the tinny quality. Nina Clifford. One of St. Paul's most prominent madams.

"It's meself, Mrs. Clifford. What can I do for you?"

"I wonder if you could stop by my office right away? I have someone in desperate need of your services." She paused. "Payment in advance, of course."

No telling what sort of trouble her customer had gotten into. Had the wife caught him leaving Nina's establishment? Was he mixed up in bootlegging? He hoped not. Cases involving local suppliers could be a real bitch to resolve. Just the same, even if clients were lined up twice around the block, Christopher would drop everything to meet with Mrs. Clifford. She had bank-rolled his business and referred clients to him at every opportunity. He owed the woman a lifetime of favors.

* * *

><p>"Althea Macklin, this is Christopher Chance, the man I was telling you about" Nina Clifford said. "Christopher Chance, meet Althea Macklin."<p>

The woman studied him with a penetrating intensity that seemed to count the hairs on his head and estimate the size of his, umm, shoe. Chances were, she'd know within 50¢ how little money reposed in his wallet. Christopher ordered his mouth to close itself. It felt like his jaw had bounced on the floor when she folded back her veil.

She was beautiful. No, she was beyond beautiful, or would have been if her eyes weren't puffy and red from crying and her skin the color of chalk. She was young enough to have bobbed her silver-blonde hair, but retained the elegant Gibson Girl style that required thick, luxurious tresses to attain. He pictured himself removing the ebony combs holding it in place and running his fingers through it as it tumbled to her waist….

She held out a gloved hand as fine-boned as a sparrow. His fingers felt thick and clumsy as they closed around hers.

"How do you do, Mr. Chance. I hope you can help. My husband intends to kill me."

She was dressed in mourning from black hat to calf-high frock to sheer black hose that couldn't have excited him more if they were those racy fishnet stockings some of the Dime-a-Dance dollies wore. And her clod of a husband, lucky enough to have won an exquisite creature like this for his wife, wanted to murder her? The man was a lunatic.

**… … … … ...**

"We sat up very late that night, my sister and I," Althea Macklin said. "We were trying to decide what to do about Humphrey - my husband. We separated almost five years ago. He's complained about paying my maintenance stipend every month since it was assessed. Forty dollars a month. Says it's too much, the stingy mope. He has more money than he could spend in three lifetimes."

Etta, one of Nina's house-maids, bustled in carrying a tea tray. Althea's hand shook as she lifted a cup to her lips and sipped.

"I even found work waitressing in a tea room. It didn't pay enough to keep a roof over my head. I had to move back in with Momma and Pops. That is, until Nina hired me and sent me to stenographer school. I can type eighty words a minute and take shorthand at a hundred. I'd just got my own place, close enough to church I can walk."

Christopher released a breath he'd forgotten he was holding. Althea wasn't one of Nina's girls. If she were, he knew he'd spend every last penny in his dismal bank account for a single night with her. He tried to picture her seated before a typewriter, delicate fingers flying over the keys. An image of those same fingers rolling down her hose kept getting in the way.

"It got too late for me to go home alone. Momma and Pops were already asleep and my brothers hadn't come in yet. My sister and I went upstairs. I still had some things in my old room across the hall from hers, but we both got into my sister's bed like we did when we were kids, just talking up a storm.

"After a while we were finally dozing off when I heard noises downstairs. I said to Willa - "

Althea's voice failed and she began sobbing. Nina took over the story.

"She heard someone come upstairs. The risers creak so it's easy to hear when someone goes up or down. Althea thought it was one of her brothers and called out. When the man opened their door and said 'Who's Mrs. Macklin,' _Willa_ pipes up and says, 'Me. Get out or I'll scream the house down.'"

"She was always so fearless," Althea said. "Nothing ever daunted her, she got mad instead of frightened. But then he - He pointed his gun and - "

"The bastard shot Willa point blank," Nina said. "She didn't have a chance."

Christopher could visualize the horror, the screams, the blood. He pictured Althea, too frightened, too stunned to move, wishing with all her heart she had spoken before her sister did. He could imagine all too well the guilt she must feel, as much or more than her grief.

He hated to ask questions that would seem both callous and intrusive, but he needed information. The trigger-man wasn't her husband since he didn't recognize Althea. It had to be a hired gun. If the man were smart, he'd be long gone, headed for Kansas City or Cicero, or any of a dozen other sanctuary towns. Still, knowing the killer's identity would make finding him and proving who hired him easier.

"Did you get a look at him? Any idea who he was?"

Althea had regained her composure. "He wore a bandana tied around his face and a hat, a fedora, pulled down low. I know Humphrey put him up to it. Paid him. Humphrey wouldn't risk dirtying his hands, or disgracing the family name doing the job himself. Besides, he's a terrible shot. The gun he keeps in his desk at the bank isn't even loaded."

That was why her name sounded familiar. The Macklins owned one of the largest banks in Minneapolis.

"Is there a reason he might want you dead - besides the maintenance stipend?"

"About half a million. I found out he's had my life insured for $250,000. Double indemnity for 'accidental' death."

Christopher whistled. "Those are some pretty strong motives, I'm thinkin'."

"It's just the tip of the iceberg. He came to see me the last time my maintenance was due. Asked me again for a divorce. Of course I refused, as I have from the very first. What God hath joined together let no man put asunder. They should include 'or woman'. He only married me because I refused to grant him liberties without a ring on my finger. Now he's got another dolly on his string holding out for marriage and he can't because of me."

"She's Catholic," Nina said, as if Christopher, being a lapsed one himself and a detective to boot, couldn't figure it out. "That means 'til death do us part."

"And he won't quit," Althea said, "until one of us is."

"Did you report this? Dapper Dan doesn't stand for these shenanigans."

Althea withdrew a long, bejeweled cigarette holder from her handbag. Christopher watched her insert a cigarette, produce a cloisonné lighter, and apply the flame. While women had smoked in public since Teddy Roosevelt's hellion daughter Alice had brazenly set the trend, he still found himself fascinated by the lighting-up process. Especially when the woman was as lovely as this one.

She exhaled a perfect smoke-ring. The mental images of what a woman's lips and tongue agile enough to accomplish that could do to a man's body brought blood coursing to his groin.

"It would be a waste of time."

_Oh, no, it wouldn't. Oh. She meant going to the police._

"The Macklins are connected all the way to the top," Althea said. "Not just through their bank. Humphrey's brother Simon is a deputy commissioner. Their goons could cut my throat at the top of Summit Hill and no one would lift a finger."

And that was why the gunman risked defying the O'Connor system. Humphrey could lay low and hire killer after killer with the system providing alibis and hide-outs until one of them succeeded.

What he needed was to turn Dan Hogan against Humphrey Macklin. Neutralize Humphrey and you neutralized the threat to Althea.

"You can't go back to your own place or your parents'," Christopher said. "Word will be out the killer got the wrong woman. Someone will try for you again."

He wished he had somewhere to hide her until she was out of danger. A house or hotel where he could keep her safe. Visit her with reports….

"She'll stay with me," Nina said. "There isn't a hoodlum in the state who'd dare make mischief here. The Macklins might be big fish in the twin cities, but I know secrets going all the way to Washington, D. C."

* * *

><p>Christopher walked to the Model T he'd left parked outside Nina's. For once the temperamental flivver started on the first crank. He leaped to the driver's seat, made a U-turn, and headed for Wabasha Street.<p>

Despite their shared Irish heritage, no love was lost between Christopher Chance and Dapper Dan Hogan.

Hogan, current godfather of the O'Connor system, was a self-styled peacemaker who possessed equal clout with local criminals and the police department. He held court from the Green Lantern Saloon, a combination eatery and beer joint. Beneath a sign in the front window reading DAPPER DAN THE HOTDOG MAN, frankfurters sizzled on a griddle. The Green Lantern was where visiting outlaws checked in, paid their bribe, and received instructions on where to stay while in St. Paul. It was the place to fence stolen property or launder securities and bonds. If your liquor shipment was hijacked, here was where you came to ransom it back.

It was no welcome refuge for Christopher. Some of the regulars knew him and word swiftly passed that a former Pinkerton and present-day bounty hunter had just stepped through the door.

Ignoring both the scowls and handful of customers suddenly remembering urgent business elsewhere, he strode to the bar and plunked down a nickel. "Beer," he said, knowing he wouldn't get the real stuff but the nasty but legal "near beer" served to quench hotdog eaters' thirst.

"Hogan in?"

"Who wants to know?"

The bartender knew perfectly well who he was.

"Meself," Christopher said. "And me sidekick, Mr. Colt."

He let his jacket fall open just enough to reveal what he carried in his shoulder holster.

Unimpressed, the bartender served the beer, then strolled to the pass-through at the end of the bar. He crossed to a closed door, gave a double rap, then opened it far enough to poke his head through. Moments later, leaving the door ajar, he sauntered back. Christopher waited patiently, elbow propped on the bar.

"G'won in. But make it snappy. He's got better things to do than palaver with has-been Pinks."

**… … … … ...**

"A girl was murdered a few nights ago in your so-called safe city," Christopher said.

"Hooker?" Dan Hogan queried with a lift of one shoulder that said "so what?" He flicked ash from a fat Cuban cigar.

"A lass barely sixteen, and from a respectable family."

"Ah, yes. Heard about that. House burglary, wasn't it? Damn shame."

Christopher pointed a finger at Hogan's nose. "House burglary my arse. If that's what your goons told you, they lied through their teeth. Humphrey Macklin hired someone to bump off his wife. The bastard killed the wife's little sister by mistake. I want the trigger-man - alive - and then I'm getting Macklin."

"That's a mighty tall order."

"You're gonna help me fill it."

"Am I now?" Hogan said, but something had changed in his face. "You have any proof Macklin was involved? Even if you do, what makes you think he'll spend a single day behind bars? Don't you know who the Macklins are?"

"I know Humphrey broke the code. The same code pick-pockets get run out of town for breaking."

"Happens, sometimes."

"Do you know why Macklin wants his wife dead?"

Hogan leaned back in his chair and spread his arms in a what-can-I-do? gesture. "Not my problem. She's probably a cold fish now she's got her hooks into a family with money. Word is she won't divorce him. Been bleedin' him for years."

Christopher throttled down a furious reply. He needed Hogan's help, or at least his non-interference.

"If you call forty dollars a month bleeding. He gets half a million if something 'happens' to her. Never mind she's done nothing but try to live by her beliefs. Her sister - the one they _buried_ - never did anything to harm Macklin."

"That may be true, but the shooter's likely half-way to Seattle - "

"Have someone in Seattle send him back."

Hogan examined the ash that had reformed on his cigar. After a moment he said, "I can possibly do that."

"And put the word out no one else comes after Althea Macklin or what's left of her family - regardless of the pay-off."

Hogan laughed. "You're not lackin' the balls, are ya? You're askin' a hell of a lot. What do I get in return?"

For the first time since entering the Green Lantern, Christopher smiled. "Nina Clifford's gratitude."

Hogan winced. He ground out the cigar in an ashtray, then gave Christopher a level stare. "I'll put the word out. Not that someone won't try for her anyhow if the price is right. You'd better hire some protection."

"Hire the fox to guard the hen-house? Don't make me laugh."

"There's a lad I could lend you. Knows a bit about demolition, electrical gadgets, that sort of thing. Has a keen eye and ear, and a zipped lip. Knows which side his bread is buttered on. You might find him useful."

Spy, Christopher thought, but decided against dismissing Hogan's gesture outright. He produced a business card and placed it on Hogan's desk.

"Tell him to get in touch. And I'll be waitin' to have a wee chat with the trigger-man."


	4. Chapter 4

9

CHAPTER 4

St. Paul, Minnesota

Tuesday, August 11

1925

**(1 DAY AGO)**

The following morning, Christopher's mechanic, Lefty Caruso, swaggered into Christopher's office without bothering to knock. He let the Gladstone bag he seemed never to be without settle on the floor with an ominous clunk. "What's shakin, bub?"

"Salt 'n' pepper," Christopher replied automatically.

He frowned at his visitor. Calling Lefty a shrimp would be insulting, Christopher mused, but if he'd stopped growing two inches ago, you wouldn't have much choice. Normally dressed in greasy overalls, today Lefty wore moleskin breeches, knee-high lace-up boots, a white linen shirt and a blue serge eight-quarter golf cap. Except for his cold, flint-colored eyes, he looked scarcely thirteen.

"Sorry I haven't been by with your money," Christopher said. "I've got it right here." He began sorting through the bills for the one from Lefty's Garage.

"Never mind that right now," Lefty said. He tossed the business card Christopher had left with Dapper Dan onto the desk. "Hogan said to make myself useful."

"You?" Christopher rubbed his chin, not sure what to make of Hogan's spy, or what to do with him. He would never have guessed his own shade-tree mechanic was on Hogan's payroll. "Well…suppose you start by telling me what sort of…skills you have that I'd find useful."

"Better you don't know, bub. That way you can't spill the beans accidental-like. How 'bout this: is that flivver you drive the best you can afford?"

"For now, yeah." He hated how defensive he sounded. The battered old Model T ran, usually, but boiled over at 20 miles an hour. On her best day she seldom managed fifteen miles between breakdowns

"Pathetic. Gimme half a C-note and I'll make it a new car."

The only way to do that was replace it piece-by-piece from the tires up.

"We don't do car heists."

"Hey!" Lefty held out both hands palms up. "Are these the hands of a siwash buggy-booster?"

Christopher thought the stubby fingers looked more suited to grubbing potatoes than anything else. They probably weren't nimble enough to jump-wire any modern automobile.

As if reading Christopher's mind, Lefty added, "I'll have you know I helped Rickenbacker there develop the tandem fly-wheel and the 4-wheel braking system."

Christopher glanced at the autographed photo on the wall. The Great War air ace had bought into and lent his name to an automobile factory. The plant produced extraordinary vehicles, which even with the innovative 4-wheel braking system remained moderately priced. A Rickenbacker Six four-door sedan sold for under $2000. Christopher would have traded his soul for one.

Wondering why the little man had parted company with Rickenbacker, and how he ended up an errand boy for Dapper Dan, Christopher decided he might as well find out what Lefty could do. Praying his sole means of transportation survived whatever Lefty had in mind, he pulled a $50 bill from the retainer Nina Clifford had given him and handed it over.

**… … … … …**

What Lefty could do, Christopher discovered when he answered the little man's summons to "come take a gander," gave him a nice new crop of premature gray hairs.

"Lucky it wasn't any older," Lefty said, "or I couldn't've put the self-starter in. It was optional on this model, but whoever bought it was too cheap to pay the extra. I put in a fuel pump, so no more backing up hills. Now you gotta watch it, 'cause self-starters are vulnerable to bombs, the way the crank never was. You still got the gas tank right under the driver's seat. If that blows, they'll have to pick up what's left of you with a blotter."

Accustomed to the complicated procedure required to crank-start the car - set the spark, adjust the choke, turn the crank, and cross your fingers the blasted thing didn't backfire and break your arm when the crank counter-rotated - Christopher took the passenger seat. He watched closely as Lefty toed the starter button on the floorboard. The engine purred magically to life.

He scrabbled for a handhold as the runabout leaped from the curb and zoomed down the street as if chased by the hounds of hell.

"I doubled your horsepower and about doubled the speed she can reach," Lefty shouted over the howling slipstream. "Too bad you don't have a speedometer. I bet we're pushing fifty. Fellow I used to work with at Budd's in Philly? Tesla. An inventor. He's working on one. Working on a new kind of engine, too. Powered by a turbine - "

KA-BLAAAM!

The Model T careened to the right. Lefty yanked the wheel hard left to keep from taking out a fire hydrant. Automatic in hand, Christopher was trying to spot the shooter and return fire when he realized one of the runabout's tires had blown.

"Pathetic" Lefty said, eying the destroyed tire. "I hope you got a spare."

* * *

><p>That afternoon, although he had nothing to offer beyond his visit to Hogan and the go-between's agreement to cooperate, Christopher decided to drive to Nina's and give Althea a progress report.<p>

He expected Althea to be busy inventorying bed sheets or preparing a bank deposit, and was disappointed not to find her in Nina's office. Hoping no one would notice him, he peeked cautiously around the corner into the 'day room' where Nina's girls gathered for a meal before the brothel opened for the evening. No Althea. Two or three of the girls smiled enticingly and beckoned him to join them.

"Later," he promised with fingers crossed behind his back. Turning to escape, he almost mowed down Etta as she carried in a coffee urn.

"Sorry, me darlin'," he said, clasping her shoulders until she had her balance. "Would ya know where I'd be finding Mrs. Macklin?"

"The ballroom, Sir."

He'd been hearing music, he realized. Not the assorted honky-tonk tunes and ballads from Nina's phonograph record collection, but the same melody played again and then again on a piano. He followed the sound, pausing inside the open doors when he reached the ballroom.

"I think you've got it, Duckie" Nina told the woman perched atop the piano. "Run through it one more time."

"I'll see you in my dre-e-eeams," the woman crooned, "and I'll hold you in my dre-e-eeams…."

Once again Christopher found himself staring, mouth agape. No question the voice was Althea's, but her own mother wouldn't have known her.

Her silver-blonde tresses were gone, cut in a chin-length bob and dyed a witchy black. A red silk show gown slit thigh high and shimmering with beaded fringe had replaced her mourning garments. She clasped a long, red lacquer cigarette holder in one gloved hand. Red tinted silk stockings and high-heeled shoes completed her ensemble.

And damn if she couldn't sing. Her low, throaty voice was made for slow, sexy ballads. Christopher stood unmoving, entranced.

When she finished the number and hopped down from the piano, Christopher's applause startled everyone in the ballroom. Louie's hand disappeared beneath the keyboard, then reappeared gripping a tiny, four barreled pistol. Recognizing Christopher, the piano player slipped the derringer back in its hiding place.

"Mercy, Christopher," Nina said as she marched over to hook an arm through his, "you mustn't sneak up on people like that. I didn't know whether to dive behind the piano or reach for my shooting irons."

"Mrs. Clifford, _you_ tote shooting irons? 'Tis amazed I am."

'Tis damn near shot, you were," Louis said, mimicking Christopher's brogue in his deep bass.

"Can't be too careful when you're harboring a fugitive," Nina said. "What do you think of Althea's disguise?"

"Fooled me completely. I come lookin' to speak with your secretary and instead I find a torch singer."

"Not quite yet," Althea said, joining them. "I don't have any repertoire to speak of. The only singing I've done outside church is in the shower."

Did she have to say shower, Christopher wondered. A picture of her, naked, wet, and soapy, arose like some exotic blossom in his imagination. He tugged his jacket closed to cover his reaction to the image.

"Do ya think it's a good idea, Mrs. Clifford, puttin' Mrs. Macklin on public view like this?"

"Did you recognize her?"

"Well, no, but that's not sayin' someone else wouldn't. Her husband - "

Althea exploded in a fit of giggles. It was the first he'd heard her laugh. The sound made him want to sweep her up and whirl her around, or present her with the Hope diamond, just so he could hear her squeal with delight.

"Nina," she said, "can't you just picture Humphrey coming in _here_?"

Nina gave her a look.

"Oh, heavens, you don't mean he actually…did?" She no longer sounded so amused.

"It was long ago, Duckie. Long before he married you."

"I wish I'd known when I filed for separate maintenance," Althea said. "I could've blackmailed him."

If you'd ever dressed like this for him, Christopher thought, you wouldn't have to.

Taking a strangle hold on his thoughts, Christopher said, "I came to give Mrs. Macklin a progress report. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Use my office," Nina said. "I've got some errands to run."

Christopher and Althea gave each other puzzled looks. Nina Clifford wasn't in the habit of running errands.

**… … … … … …**

His progress report took less than three minutes to relate. Casting about for some excuse to prolong the time he spent with Althea, he heard himself blurt, "There's a Tom Mix picture playing at the American Theater. I don't suppose you'd care to go?"

Althea suddenly looked very sad. "That's the movie my sister and I were going to see this weekend."

"Aw, geeze, 'tis sorry I am." _Me and my big mouth_.

She laid a hand on his arm, and his arm ignited.

"It's not your fault, Mr. Chance. Please don't feel bad. I'd love to see a movie, just…not that one. I haven't seen the new Valentino picture. _The Eagle_. It's playing at the Mounds. I've heard it's swell."

Oh great, Christopher thought. Another 'Latin Lover' lover. Mrs. Gustav and her daughters could rattle on for hours it seemed, Rudy this, Valentino that. However, if it meant spending more time with Althea, he could sit through the show. Maybe even pick up some pointers….

"The Mounds it is, then. And please call me Christopher. Umm…would ya care to get a bite of dinner before we go?"

"Dinner sounds wonderful. And you must call me Althea. But please, let me treat. You've been so kind, it's the least I can do."

Christopher had never, in his adult life, allowed a woman to pay for an outing. He didn't intend to start now. "Tell ya what. We'll toss a coin. Loser buys dinner." He fished a $5.00 gold piece from his pocket. "Call it."

"Heads."

Rather clumsily he managed to reverse the coin before presenting it. "Tails it is."

Althea put her hands on her hips. "I saw you switch that coin."

"Did ya now? 'Tis a sharp eye ya have, me lass. Want to try for best out of three?"

"Only if I toss the coin. You, Sir, cheat!"

"Guilty as charged, but I'll be doin' the buying. When should I pick you up?"

* * *

><p>Preparing to pick up Althea felt odd to Christopher. A long time had passed since his last outing with a lady. Girl, really. He was nineteen, she maybe seventeen. A church social. Lots of water had washed across his decks since then, he mused. He'd slain a traitor, fled to America, joined the Merchant Marines. Proudly took the oath of allegiance when he became a citizen.<p>

He seldom met eligible ladies. When he was with Pinkerton's, he never stayed in one place long enough. Since opening his own business he rarely had the means to show a nice girl a good time. There had been that one…adventure with Hazel when the elevator got stuck between floors. You couldn't really count that as a good time, even with Hazel trapped with him. And calling Hazel a nice girl was like calling a mountain lion a pussycat.

So, nowadays when he craved female companionship, he carried a pocket full of change to Olaf's Cabaret where the Dime-a-Dance dollies were only too happy to sit out a few numbers, drink some root beer, and talk. Once in a while he took one of Nina's girls upstairs.

But this was a real date. The kind where you shave a second time, wear a dinner jacket and tie, and maybe buy the lady a corsage. Did you bring a corsage when taking a lady to dinner and a movie? Maybe a single long stem red rose was better. No, make it white.

He hesitated befor strapping on his shoulder holster. It was uncomfortable as hell and he wished he could leave it behind. But with Althea's husband still free to make trouble, he'd better carry it.

At six-thirty he arrived on Althea's - well, Nina Clifford's - doorstep. Althea was staying at Nina's _home_, she'd pointedly reminded him. A butler answered the bell.

"Please come in," he said, taking Christopher's fedora. "Mrs. Macklin will be right down. Do have a seat."

He was too nervous to do anything but pace.

Mrs. Macklin. He'd given little thought to the fact he was stepping out with a married - albeit legally separated - woman. Whose husband's presence lurking in the wings presented a boulder-sized stumbling block between himself and the woman who made his heart turn cartwheels just by smiling at him. Like she was now.

"Hello, Christopher," Althea said.

He stopped pacing and proffered the rose. "This is for you."

"Thank you. It's lovely."

So are you, Christopher thought.

The bobbed black hair was utterly different from the image he carried in his mind's eye from the first time he saw her. Still, the new look somehow suited her. She wore a dark lavender frock with a wide-pleated over-skirt that didn't quite reveal her knees. A band of beadwork sewn in geometric patterns encircled the waist and neckline, and twinkled with every breath she took. She wore a long necklace of matching beads and carried a tiny handbag that matched her French heeled shoes. A delicious fragrance enveloped her. He wanted to press his face against her skin and never stop inhaling.

"You look good enough to eat."

She laughed. "You must be famished if that's what you think. Let me find a vase for this, then we can go."

The butler materialized as if waiting for his cue. "May I take that for you?"

"Thank you Travis. Make sure it goes in my room, will you please?"

"Of course, Mrs. Macklin." He took the rose and handed Christopher his hat. "Enjoy your evening."

Outside, Althea heaved a huge sigh. "Servants! They make me feel so…so inadequate, know what I mean?"

"They scare me silly."

"So let's go somewhere plain and simple for dinner - unless you made reservations?"

He hadn't even thought of reservations.

He took her to Bambino Billy's, where tiny tables bore red and white checked tablecloths and fat red or white candles. Billy - whose real name, Guillermo, wouldn't fit on the restaurant's menus, served heaping plates of spaghetti topped with sauce that had simmered for hours before being offered to customers.

"The best I've ever tasted," Althea told him, and Bambino Billy beamed with pleasure.

He produced bowls of spumoni for dessert and somehow Christopher and Althea ended up feeding each other spoonfuls of ice cream.

They took the long way to Indian Mounds Park. The theater was situated at the edge of the park, close by a bakery. The fragrance of bread baking for tomorrow's early-bird customers vied with the odor of fish, mud, and lubricating oil arising from the nearby Mississippi River. A switch-engine rattled and chuffed in railroad yards they could see if they climbed one of the mounds.

Twinkling lights in a fountain design crowned the Mounds Theater marquee. Larger-than-life posters of Rudolph Valentino hung in the lobby's display windows. Christopher pretended not to notice the look Althea shot him when he asked for seats in the balcony.

"So kids can't drop popcorn on us - or worse," he said as he escorted her up the narrow staircase, but they both knew the real reason dating couples asked for balcony seats was to neck.

They arrived in the middle of a newsreel, which was followed by a Felix the Cat cartoon. Christopher would later recall not a single scene from Valentino's latest movie.

What he did recall was the aroma of popcorn filling the theater. Althea's perfume. The way they laughed at Felix's antics. The theater pianist's obvious delight in finding music to match the action on the screen.

Christopher finally risked draping his arm around the back of Althea's seat. He was thrilled when she leaned closer and rested her head against his shoulder. She uttered a soft little sigh he would remember to his dying breath.

He turned to whisper something to her just as she turned to say something to him, and that easily their mouths came together. Her kiss was warm and sweet and somehow conveyed a wistful yearning for him to kiss her again, this time not by accident. He was more than happy to oblige.

**… … … … … …**

They kissed goodbye - again - in the car so no one would see them. He'd parked half-way down the block, to have an excuse to hold Althea's hand a little longer as he walked her to her door.

"I had a wonderful time," she told him as she removed the house key from her purse.

"Me, too," Christopher said. "Maybe we could do it again some time." Like tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that.

The lock was being stubborn. Althea gave him a helpless look. "I can't get the key to turn."

"Let me try."

Christopher reached for the key. As he did, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He blinked it away and reached again for the key. Pain like the stings of a thousand bees swept him from scalp to toes. It settled in his head, in his mind, and he heard himself yelling through clenched teeth.

He heard Althea screaming, crying out for help, and wondered if this was how a bullet to the brain felt. If another Macklin hit-man had recognized Althea. Was she hurt? If he'd failed to protect her, he'd never forgive himself. Then the world around him went black and he guessed he'd never know.


	5. Chapter 5

8

CHAPTER 5

St. Paul, Minnesota  
>Wednesday, Thursday, Friday<br>August 12, 13, 14

1925

With Christopher's consciousness fully awakened, the two identities had to learn in a hurry to cooperate.

Although communicating without speech came easily, both decided they preferred to speak aloud, as if each possessed a body of his own. To avoid being shipped off to the nearest loony bin, they 'sent' conversations to each other mentally whenever someone might observe Christopher talking to himself, and answering with an entirely different manner of speaking. While concealing their private thoughts proved fairly simple, strong emotion bled through despite every effort to hide it. Christopher, Chance learned, took everything to heart.

By the end of their third conjoined day, they had developed a certain grudging respect for each other. Neither man wanted to allow the other to take full charge, but Chance realized Christopher knew the lay of the land, and he did not. For the most part, he deferred to the rightful possessor of the body they shared. No way in the world would Chance risk shaving with Christopher's straight-edge razor. Nor could he drive Christopher's car again. When he insisted on trying, he had almost flipped the top-heavy runabout like a pancake. Even with Lefty's modifications, Model T's did not perform bootlegger turns.

"I'm five-eleven," Chance informed Christopher as they sat comparing notes.

"Five-eight."

Chance had been right about the trouser length.

"I can ride a horse."

Christopher shrugged. "Who can't? How fast can you run?"

"Fast enough to outrun the Gustav sisters."

Both men tried to snicker at the same moment. The sound was not pretty.

Christopher's physical fitness impressed Chance. He swam at a nearby YMCA, wrestled, and boxed. While the fad for jogging lay many decades in the future, Christopher often ran just for fun.

"Not to brag, ya understand, but two weeks ago at a track meet, I ran the 440 in 49 seconds flat. The record's 47.6, set at last year's World Olympic Games.

Chance whistled. "Not bad. I can fly a plane."

Now Christopher's ears pricked. Ford tri-motors were the coming thing, but surplus bi-planes, Curtiss JN-4's - the Jenny - could be acquired almost as easily as a used automobile. He longed to fly a plane. If the guy in his head already knew how….

"Jennies?" Christopher asked.

"No, jets."

"What in blazes is a jet?"

Living in a 1920s boarding house differed little from some places Chance had stayed in the early days while on assignments for the Old Man. Sharing the upstairs bathroom with four other boarders, however, was tedious. There was never enough hot water.

Mrs. Gustav was a wonderful cook, but served only breakfast and supper. Boarders were left to their own devices for luncheon. Chance and Christopher had strolled to the corner saloon and were enjoying the free lunch that came with the purchase of a nickel "near beer" when Chance told Christopher he was the first of five men to carry on his name and his commitment.

'First of six, then,' Christopher sent, salting a hard-boiled egg. ' 'Tis not the name I was born with, 'though an honorable one. Borrowed, ya might say, from a gent I knew in the Old Country. Bit of a Robin Hood, he was, or maybe more like your own Jesse James.'

'Robbed the rich?' Chance sent back, marveling how much fun it was to 'talk' with his mouth full. He bit into a sandwich made with thick slices of bakery bread, cheese, and the best ham he'd ever tasted.

' 'Tis no use robbin' the poor, now is it? And it wasn't like he needed the swag. He kept enough to keep his lads comfortable and loyal - or so he believed. The rest appeared on the doorsteps of the needy.'

'So you were part of his operation?'

'Operation. There's a term he'd've liked. You could say so. I was a bit young to go along on the raids, but I had me uses - ears and eyes. No one pays attention to a kid hanging around. Had I but seen what was what a bit quicker, I might have been in time to stop….'

A sense of deep sorrow washed over Chance as Christopher recalled the betrayal and subsequent execution of the first Christopher Chance. And the keen satisfaction this Christopher felt when he slit the throat of the man who'd sold them out.

'Only man I ever met who truly deserved to die,' Christopher sent. 'Me hands are bloody, but I'm after carryin' on Old Chris's mission: - help those with nowhere else to turn.'

Christopher's words sent a thrill of recognition coursing through Chance. So this was where the creed he now lived by had come from.

A figure approached their table. Lefty Caruso sauntered up, carrying a beer mug and a towering sandwich made with cold-cuts, slices of cheese, pickles, relish and mustard.

"Mind if I join you?"

There was a brief tussle for control as both men tried to gesture Lefty to take a seat. Christopher won.

"Take a load off."

"Got a message from Hogan," Lefty said. "The trigger-man's on his way back. Picked him up in Ogden. He'll be on the train tomorrow. Oh, and Nina Clifford said if I saw you, ask you to drop by."

Another summons from Nina. She or Althea would expect a progress report. Becoming accustomed to another entity occupying his body had taken valuable time. Beyond the news Lefty just brought, he had little to offer.

"I'll drive. No arguing," he told Chance as they left the saloon.

Christopher no longer knew what to expect when he started the Model T, which Lefty continued to 'improve' with his tinkering. One day when he started it, the dam' thing would sprout wings and take to the sky. Then he would _have_ to let Chance take the wheel, something which, after what happened before, he would swap the runabout for a milk-wagon to avoid.

* * *

><p>Chance eyed Nina's office with interest. Its crystal chandelier, deep pile carpet, velvet drapes and white marble fireplace mantle looked more like the parlor in one of San Francisco's 'painted ladies' than a brothel's business office.<p>

'I've heard,' Christopher sent, 'Nina puts up a Christmas tree in here every year, and hangs stockings on the fire place. One for each of her girls.'

'I don't want to guess what Santa puts in them.' Chance gave a mental shudder.

"Sit down, Christopher," Nina said, gesturing to the visitor chair beside her desk. "One of my girls has something to tell you."

_Uh-oh._

Nina seated herself behind the desk, picked up a small silver bell, and rang it. A moment later, Masie walked in, looking as hang-dog as a striking brunette flapper could look. She wore street clothes, not one of the luxurious outfits Nina provided, and no makeup.

This, Christopher thought, does not look good. Masie was the…lady he'd spent the night with before awakening with Chance riding around in his head. The morning after he escorted Althea Macklin to the movies and stole some of the sweetest kisses it had ever been his good fortune to claim.

Neither he nor Chance understood how or why he'd gone from Althea's embrace to Masie's room at Nina's. Now that he might find out, he wasn't so sure he wanted to know.

"Hello, Masie," Christopher said, "what's up?"

Masie did not reply with the off color wisecrack he expected. Instead, she extended her hand in which she grasped a $20 bill, and a $5. "This is yours," she said. "I shouldn't've took it. I'm sorry."

She sounded like a little girl whose mother had marched her into the local sweet shop and made her admit stealing a chocolate bar, Christopher thought, amused.

He ignored the proffered money. "Why not?"

"'Cause I didn't earn it. You were too blotto to do anything when they carried you in the other night. Mrs. Clifford had them put you to bed and told me to watch over you 'til you sobered up. That's all I did."

He stifled a sigh of relief. He'd been covertly alert for any symptoms of disease ever since. Although Nina's girls were clean, it paid not to take chances. Now he was far more interested in learning what happened after he blacked out than recovering any wrongfully collected money.

"Who brought me here, did you see?"

Masie shrugged. "A couple of mopes that hang around the Bucket of Blood. I don't know their names." She glanced at Nina. "He's lucky they didn't roll him."

"Take the money, Christopher," Nina said. "How much did you pay her under the table?"

You weren't supposed to tip. Most customers did anyway. He gave Nina his most innocent look. "Under the table?"

"Bunk! You overpay the shoe-shine boy. How much, Masie?"

"Five," Masie muttered.

"Give it back."

"Mrs. Clifford," Christopher said, "that's not necessary."

"Shush. I will not tolerate my girls stealing. Masie."

Masie added a $5 gold-piece to the cash she'd dropped on Nina's desk.

"Now get your things and get out."

"But Mrs. Clifford, I - "

Nina stood. She looked as formidable as an angry queen. "You knew the rules. You chose to break them. Get your things, or I'll have Louie toss them in the street."

When Masie had gone, Christopher said, "That was a wee bit harsh, I'm thinkin'."

"Is that so? Listen, Ducky, I pay my girls better than Dottie Hazzard or Frankie Elden, or even Sadie Burnett. I provide their working clothes, I make sure they see a doctor regularly, and I don't let just any bum waltz in here and take them upstairs. Hell, I even send them to the Mounds in a taxicab when some of them want to go. Good publicity for me, fun for them. All I ask in return is they give the customer a good time, and they never - ever - steal. If I let one get away with it, they'll all try. I've got a reputation to maintain."

Christopher sighed. "What will she do now?"

Nina reseated herself. "She'll find another place, or set up on he own. Frankly, I don't care. Now, Christopher, there's another matter I'd like to discuss with you…."

Christopher was only half listening as he watched Masie lug a heavy-looking faux alligator suitcase down the stairs. He supposed Nina was right to evict a thief. Just the same, he couldn't help feeling sorry for Masie.

Following Christopher's gaze, Nina frowned. "I better not find any bed sheets or negligees missing," she called, "or I'll know who to come looking for."

Masie replied with a phrase loaded with more obscenities than Christopher had heard since before mustering out of the Merchant Marines. She slammed the door so hard the chandelier shivered.

"Christopher," Nina said, sounding very much like one of the nuns who taught at the church school he'd haphazardly attended, "you need to be truthful with me. I've heard you've been acting very strange since the other night when you were…taken ill. Althea is worried. As am I. What's going on?"

_Oh, nothing much. Just someone claiming he's from the future who's taken up residence in me head._

" 'Tis nothing to be concerned about. I'm working on her case but these things take time."

"That's not what worries us. I thought you were drunk when they brought you here Tuesday night, but Althea says neither of you drank anything stronger than ginger beer. Christopher, does…epilepsy…run in your family?"

"Epilep - Hell no!"

Chance winced in sympathy. While treated routinely in his own time, in Christopher's day, epilepsy in one's bloodline was kept a deep dark secret, considered almost as damning as insanity. Epilepsy caused many an unfortunate sufferer to be shipped off to the nearest mental institution, or worse, locked in family attics.

"I'm sound as a silver dollar! Of all the things to ask, Mrs. Clifford."

"Now don't get all lathered up, Christopher. Your blackout frightened poor Althea out of her wits. Then when you didn't telephone…."

'That must have been when you moved in,' Christopher sent. 'The last thing I remember was kissing Althea.'

'I don't remember blacking out either. I remember the car I was in skidding, then waking up here, upstairs.'

"Christopher!" Nina said, coming to her feet, "are you listening? Are you going to faint?"

"Men don't faint! I'm tryin' to remember what happened is all." Christopher rubbed his temple and sent to Chance, 'You got me into this - '

'Not on purpose.'

'And that makes everything hunky-dory? Now get me out, and pronto.'

'_Pronto_?'

'It's what Tom Mix says. It means - '

'I know what it means!'

"Peanuts," Chance blurted.

Nina shot him a startled look. "I beg your pardon?"

"Peanuts. I'm allergic to them," Chance said. "I don't dare eat them, they make it hard for me to breathe. Make me…act crazy. I must've eaten some at the movie, in the dark. I didn't mean to frighten Althea. I must have…."

"Passed out?" Nina supplied. "Since of course men don't faint."

"Exactly."

'Slick,' Christopher sent. 'Is it true?'

'No.'

"How angry is Althea?" Christopher asked.

"She'll be relieved it wasn't something serious. She's not at all pleased you haven't come to see her since your…allergy fit. I can't say I blame her. You might at least have telephoned. Shame on you, Christopher, I thought you had better manners."

"I'll send her flowers," Christopher said. "Do you know what kind she likes? Maybe chocolates, too, do ya think?"

Nina smiled. "It would be a start. And maybe a bottle of Dom Perignon, as well."

**… … … … …**

'It couldn't do any harm,' Chance sent as they left Nina's, 'to deliver those flowers in person.'

'oh, so now it's a lady's man ya are? The expert in making sweet talk and goo-goo eyes?'

'I'm not so bad.' Wilson and Guerrero might not agree, but they weren't here to call him on it. 'I sweet talked a real, live princess into bed once. Not so sure about the…goo-goo eyes?'

With the Model T running, Christopher spoke aloud. "And did ya take yer princess flowers after scarin' her half to death with a…a peanut fit?"

"Well…no…."

"Then I'll thank you to stay out of me personal affairs."

An hour later, Christopher returned to Nina's carrying a long white cardboard box tied with a red satin ribbon.

Nina met him coming in. "Oh, aren't you the sly one?" she said, eying the box. "Althea's at the house, trying to decide on a costume for her début. Run on over, Duckie, and surprise her."

'Do me a favor,' Christopher sent as they walked the short distance between Nina's brothel and her residence, 'just keep quiet. No helpful suggestions. Go to sleep or something. 'Tis difficult enough having a chat with the lass without knowin' somebody's eavesdropping' on every word.'

'Pretend I'm not even here,' Chance replied, fighting to restrain the mirth Christopher's predicament provoked. 'Say anything you want. I won't breathe a word.'


	6. Chapter 6

6

CHAPTER 6

St. Paul, Minnesota  
>Friday, August 14<br>1925

"Oh, hello, Christopher," Althea said when she entered the parlor. "How nice of you to stop by."

'She doesn't sound exactly delighted to see you,' Chance sent.

'Shut. Up.'

Christopher held out the box. "These are for you. 'Tis sorry I am for not calling sooner. Things have been in a bit of a muddle, since…."

Althea was busy untying the ribbon. When she removed the lid, the fragrance of a dozen crimson roses filled the room.

"They're beautiful. Thank you, Christopher. Let me call Travis…." She crossed the room and tugged on a bell-pull. "I'm so glad you're okay. You had us terribly worried. Did you see a doctor?"

"Ah, 'twas that last sweet kiss of yours that knocked me off my feet. No use in callin' a doctor for that, I'm thinkin'."

Travis arrived and carried off the roses.

Without the box, Christopher couldn't decide what to do with his hands. Finally he shoved them in his jacket pockets. "So, ah, me automobile's parked just down the street. Would you care to go for a spin? Maybe stop at an ice cream parlor?"

"Only if you promise not to collapse again, especially while you're driving." She hooked her arm through his and steered him toward the front door. "But I can't stay out long. I'm making my debut at Nina's tonight, and I still haven't made up my mind what I'm going to wear."

Christopher frowned. "Are you sure that's such a good idea, Althea?"

Her face took on a mulish expression. "I think it's a swell idea."

He opened the car door and handed her in. When he was settled behind the wheel, he said, "Maybe it would be smart to wait until your husband is…um, neutralized. Just to be safe."

"That could take weeks. No offence, Christopher, but I never expected it to take so long."

"I can't exactly wave a magic wand and make him disappear. I have to work with the system, like it or not."

"Oh, I suppose. But it's so exciting to think that someday I might be as famous as Sophie Tucker or Annette Hanshaw. I just have to do this while I have the opportunity."

Christopher heard her unspoken "and you can't stop me!" as clearly as if she'd shouted it. He had to bite his tongue to keep from pointing out neither Sophie Tucker nor Annette Hanshaw got their starts in a whore house. He started the motor.

"Well, then, let's go have a bite of ice cream before you become too famous for the likes of me."

* * *

><p>'I don't like this,' Chance sent as they made their way to Nina Clifford's ballroom that evening. Christopher wore a coat and tie and had 'spiffied up' as if attending an important social function. As had all but a few of Nina's customers, Chance noted.<p>

'Me either. Never mind Nina's convinced no one would dare start trouble in her establishment. A torpedo will start trouble where it suits him if it means getting paid. If someone didn't get the word from Dapper Dan the hit isn't sanctioned…. At least she's hired some extra muscle for tonight.'

A bouncer Christopher had not seen before had met them at the door and relieved them of Christopher's automatic. It was somewhat reassuring that Nina disarmed her clientele, but he and Chance both knew how easy it was to conceal a second weapon. Christopher was kicking himself for not doing so.

'I'm not so sure how much help those two rent-a-cops'll be,' Chance sent. He gestured toward two off-duty patrolmen trying to look inconspicuous beside the tall wooden phonograph cabinet at the far end of the ballroom.

'Two _what_?'

Nina's ballroom was always elegantly decorated, no matter the season. In these late days of summer, with Independence Day already celebrated and Hallowe'en not yet in the offing, Nina chose an underwater theme. Strands of green and white Christmas tree lights encircled the room. Colored glass fishnet floats, bright paper mache fish, octopi, and sea-serpents hung from the ceiling on invisible thread. The ladies wore gossamer gowns, their hair loose and flowing like mermaids' tresses. Several moments passed before Christopher realized those flowing tresses were wigs. Nina's ladies had all bobbed their hair.

A handful of couples occupied the dance floor. Two or three ladies waited on the sidelines for customers. Etta and two other maids dressed in severe black and white uniforms circulated with trays carrying drinks. None of the lounging customers said more than "thank you" to them. Maids were off-limits.

Most evenings, background music came from Nina's hand-cranked phonograph and the collection of huge black discs stored in the player's lower compartment. On weekends, Louie played the piano, tips jar on prominent display. Tonight, a violinist and an accordion player had joined Louie on the tiny stage.

Althea made an almost stealthy entrance, with no introduction. She wore a headband trimmed with pearls and a white feather cockade, and at least a dozen strands of pearls around her neck. Christopher felt his breath catch at the sight of her.

The gown she'd chosen looked like a network of pale green sea-weed strands draped over body-hugging silk chiffon. The sea-weed was stitched with thousands of tiny beads that twinkled as if still moist from tumbling on the beach. The handkerchief hemline with its similar embellishment shimmered like waterborne foam where it ended a good two inches above her knees. Christopher swallowed hard. Was she wearing _anything _underneath - even stockings?

No stockings. Her feet were bare, and painted in shades of green and bronze to mimic a mermaid's tail.

'As if anyone'd notice her feet with her wearin' that next-to-nothing dress! What was Nina thinking?'

'That no one'd notice her face in that next-to-nothing dress,' Chance sent. He wished he could send Christopher an image of modern-day beachwear.

Althea settled atop the piano, humming along with the tune the tiny orchestra played. Then, with a flourish, Louie began Althea's signature song, "I'll See You in my Dreams_."_

She performed three numbers, each one generating greater applause than the last. When her final song ended, Chance was beginning to think they might pull it off unscathed. Christopher stepped onto the stage to assist Althea from the piano and escort her from the ballroom.

"Beat it, mick, I saw her first," said a man who, from his buffalo-plaid shirt and denim jeans was probably a lumberjack. At over six feet and some 250 pounds, he looked like a Viking. A pissed-off one.

Christopher planted himself between the Viking and Althea.

"Your mistake," he said, his voice low and calm. "She's not one of Nina's ladies."

"She's dressed like one. She's here. Far as I'm concerned, she's available and I'm taking her upstairs, by Yimminy."

The Viking made no effort to keep the dispute private. His voice reached every corner of the ballroom. The musicians stuttered to a stop. Dancing couples craned their necks to see who was causing trouble.

"There's no brawling in here," Louie said. Rising from the piano bench, he swept the ballroom with a malevolent gaze. His announcement usually alerted cooler heads to come separate the antagonists and hustle them outside. Tonight, no one paid Louie the slightest heed.

"Louie, get Althea out of here," Christopher said.

The rent-a-cops were nowhere to be seen as three more lumberjacks formed a cluster in the center of the ballroom. But the Viking seemed to think he needed no assistance. A hand-signal froze his comrades in place like well-trained mastiffs.

'You want me to - ' Chance sent.

'I can handle it.' Christopher assumed a pugilist's stance with both fists cocked.

He barely ducked in time as the Viking's long arm came at him with a fist like a mallet. Christopher counter-punched, left, right, missing the Viking's head but landing a solid blow to his sternum. The Viking grunted.

"Yah, you're a feisty little mick, I'll say that for you," the Viking said and came at him again.

Christopher took three or four punishing blows before he got under the other man's longer reach. He landed a strong punch that staggered the Viking more from surprise than from injury.

'Kick him in the nuts!' Chance sent.

'Not fair,' Christopher replied, back-pedaling in a circle to catch his breath.

'So?'

A little more cautious now, the Viking moved in. He snaked a fist past Christopher's guard that clipped him on the temple hard enough to send him reeling. Ears ringing, Christopher found himself flush against the piano with nowhere to go.

Chance seized the moment to sneak out a foot and trip the Viking. The Viking landed on his butt with a thud that shook the ballroom floor.

Christopher pushed away from the piano. "Had enough?" he asked, arms at his sides to signal his willingness to end the altercation.

The Viking got up on all fours. "You want to play dirty, we'll play dirty, you betcha!"

The Viking launched himself at Christopher, catching him mid-thigh, landing on top as they hit the floor. Up in a flash, he stepped back and slammed a kick full force to Christopher's ribs. Another kick whistled past his head as he jerked aside.

Christopher pushed himself to his feet by willpower alone. The Viking moved in for the kill, sailing punishing lefts and rights. Christopher ducked and dodged. He was hurt and tiring, and his ears still rang from the earlier clout to his head. With what he thought might be his last punch, he landed an uppercut to the Viking's jaw with the full weight of his body behind it. It was like hitting an oak tree, but it stopped the bigger man cold.

He heard the man's teeth snap together, saw his eyes roll up in his head. He dazedly watched the Viking sink to the floor like a slowly deflating balloon.

'Glass jaw,' Chance sent. 'Who knew?'

"Take him home," Christopher said, panting, as the Viking's cohorts started toward them.

"When we're finished with you," one of them said.

'Chance…?' Christopher sent, and it was all Chance was waiting for. He began to smile.

The ribs hurt like hell and might be cracked, but weren't broken. Bruises were nothing. Christopher's body was tough; he'd just never been trained to ignore pain. Chance's smile turned wolfish. When he was in his own body, he had defeated far deadlier opponents than these. In Christopher's he'd be slower, his reflexes less fine-tuned. Just the same, the fight was about to become a lesson in How to Kick Lumberjack Ass, 21st century style.

The three men came at him all at the same time. Just what he wanted. Spin-kick. Roundhouse kick. Elbow smash. His actions left the lumberjacks dumbfounded and staggering. Chance got one of them in the head, slamming him into another who flailed wildly as he crashed to the floor. A steel-toed boot swung at Chance's knee. He saw it coming, grabbed the boot and flipped the man like a poker chip. Then he took the fight out of him permanently with a kick to the groin.

'When outnumbered, fight dirty.'

He sensed the third man behind him just as something slammed him across the kidneys. It felt like a ball bat, but was probably only a bottle. He nailed the guy with a back kick that sent him crashing into the piano where he slumped to the floor, not moving.

"Knife!" someone shouted.

It looked as big as a machete. Chance whipped off his jacket and wound it around his arm, more as a distraction than through any hope he might deflect the blade. The men circled each other, the knife-man seeking an opening, Chance letting himself look more winded than he felt.

"Careful with that," he said, panting harder than he needed to. "Someone could get hurt - "

The man feinted left and lunged right, the knife slicing empty air where Chance had been an instant before. Chance snagged the man's wrist, grabbed his arm and yanked him across his shoulder. A sickening snap told him he'd broken the knife-man's arm.

A thunderous boom sent every male in the room flat on the floor. Screaming ladies scattered in every direction. Chance peered up to see Nina Clifford stride onto the stage. She carried a sawed-off shotgun with smoke curling from both barrels.

"Do I have everyone's attention?" she yelled. "Every one of you knows I don't tolerate this kind of behavior. If you didn't, you do now. I'll expect everyone here to put something in the kitty to cover damages, and none of you better show up again, ever. You are all permanently eight-sixed. Now get out before I decide to reload."

Althea had escaped Louie. She came pattering across the floor, still barefoot. "Oh, Christopher," she cried, "did they hurt you?"

She threw herself into his arms, but it was Chance's persona who enjoyed several moments of holding warm and wriggly female flesh before Christopher sent him a ferocious snarl and snatched back control.

She touched his cheek, making him wince. "You're getting a black eye. I'm so sorry."

She hugged him hard enough to make him grunt. The cockade in her headband tickled his nose and made him sneeze, which made his ribs hurt even more. He set Althea away from him before she hugged him again.

"By all the saints, Althea," he said, wanting to shake some sense into her and then kiss her senseless, "I _told_ you this was a bad idea."


	7. Chapter 7

8

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This chapter is dedicated to Niagaraweasle, who hoped for a "Florence Nightingale" scene between Christopher and Althea after the ballroom fight. I agreed, but my muse had other ideas and the scene that developed took a direction that probably is nothing close to what NW anticipated.

-SG

CHAPTER 7

St. Paul, Minnesota  
>Friday, August 14<br>1925

Nina strode over, followed by Louie, the bouncer, and belatedly, the two rent-a-cops. She handed Louie the shotgun and shook her finger under Christopher's nose.

"Are you out of your mind? What did you think you were doing, going bare knuckles with Tommy Jergensen? Don't you know he's Jack Dempsey's favorite sparring partner?"

"I couldn't let him-"

"Louie and I could've handled it. Now I've had to 86 one of my best customers."

She continued berating him, but Christopher wasn't listening. He was mulling over the fact that he'd KO-ed the Manassa Mauler's top sparring partner - someone who made his living trading punches with the man who'd worn the World Heavyweight Boxing Championship belt since 1919.

No wonder he hurt so damn bad.

"Christopher, he might have killed you," Althea said.

"I'm not so sure he didn't," Christopher said, the trace of whine creeping into his voice.

'That's it,' Chance sent. 'Milk it.'

'Huh?'

'Milk it. Make her think you're hurt worse than you are.'

'I _am_ hurt worse than she thinks I am.'

'No you're not,' Chance sent. 'But women love fussing over a man when he's hurt. Pretend you're feeling weak and dizzy.'

'I _am_ feeling weak and dizzy.'

'No, you're not. But say something so she'll know you're in pain but trying not to show it.'

'Like what?'

'Anything.'

Christopher brought his hand up to his brow. "Ooooh, me head."

'Now faint.'

'What? Men don't - '

Chance snatched control, sagged at the knees, and dropped to the floor in a heap.

"Oh, dammit!" Nina Clifford snapped. "Here we go again."

Althea knelt beside him, started to pat his cheek, then drew her hand back. "What should we do? Shouldn't we call a doctor?"

"What do you think, Louie?" Nina asked.

"Let's get him to a bed and see if he comes around. I'll see if I can find some smelling salts."

Nina turned to the bouncer and the rent-a-cops. "You boys help get him upstairs. Althea, go with him, see if you can coax him awake. Louie, fix a couple of ice-bags, too. I'll send Etta up with the first aid kit. Put him in Mazie's room again. I haven't replaced her yet."

Christopher played possum until the bouncer and rent-a-cops had settled him on the bed and departed. Althea plumped his pillow, then sat on the edge of the bed and picked up his hand. It was swollen and the knuckles scraped and bloody. His temple throbbed and his ribs hurt like hell. But Althea was holding his sore hand in her cool fingers and that made all the pain worthwhile.

"Christopher, are you awake?"

One eye was swollen almost shut. He gazed at her through the other. "Don't think I am," he said. "I'm dreamin' there's an angel sittin' at me bedside."

Etta came in, carrying a white metal box with a large red cross on it, and an ice-bag. She handed Althea the kit, then positioned the ice-bag under Christopher's cheek.

"That should feel better. Call me if you need anything else," she said and left the room.

Muttering to herself, Althea opened the first aid kit and rummaged through the contents. She removed a bottle of mercurochrome, tape and gauze, and a wad of cotton. She lined them up on the nightstand next to a glass container that looked like a candy dish but held a supply of condoms.

She didn't have the feather-light touch Christopher had imagined. It soon became apparent Althea had no gift whatsoever for doctoring injuries. After one or two dabs at his raw knuckles with the stinging mercurochrome she gingerly placed his hand back in the middle of his chest.

"I'm sorry. I can't do this. I can't bear the sight of blood. Fatima, our housekeeper, always took care of the bumps and scrapes my brothers came home with. Willa's, too. She was worse than the boys - " She gulped back a sob.

"There now, don't be thinkin' about it. Just sit there and look beautiful, and let me rest my poor sore eyes on ya."

Louie came in carrying another ice-bag and a tumbler full of an amber liquid that burned Christopher's throat like a brand. He gasped, choked and spluttered.

"What in blazes_ is_ that," he asked, squinting at the tumbler.

"Some of Nina's private stock. Figured it'd do you more good than smelling salts."

"If it doesn't kill me."

Althea handed Louie the mercurochrome. "Louie, I need to go change before I spill something and ruin Nina's dress. Will you help Christopher with this?"

Louie gave her a look, but said, "Sure thing, Miss Althea."

Louie made short work of applying salve he found in the kit, then loosely bandaging Christopher's hands. "So how bad are really hurt?" he asked.

"Not bad. Just sore."

"Uh-huh. You'll be peeing blood come morning, though."

"Wha'd he hit me with?"

"Champagne bottle. Full one. Good glass, though. Didn't break. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"

"YMCA."

"No, I don't mean the boxing. Way you box, you're damn lucky Jergensen didn't pound your face in. I mean the fancy stuff you used on the other guys."

'Where, exactly, did we learn that?' Christopher sent.

'Tell him Pinkerton Secret Agent school.'

"Pinkerton Secret Agent school."

"Bullshit." Louie dumped the medical supplies back into the first aid kit and closed it. "All right, don't tell me. But'chu get in any more fracases in here, all the boxing and 'secret agent' fighting in the world's not gonna keep Mrs. Clifford from having your ass for a foot-warmer."

* * *

><p>St. Paul, Minnesota<br>Saturday, August 15  
>1925<p>

"Whatcha gonna tell Mrs. Gustav when she sees that shiner?" Chance asked as Christopher dragged himself from bed the following morning.

They had tiptoed in around three A.M., stealthy as a husband sent to the corner store who stayed to play poker with the boys. Mrs. Gustav locked the doors at ten PM, but Christopher knew where she hid the spare key.

"That I got in a fight over a floozy in a whorehouse. Maybe then she'll keep her daughters away from me evil clutches for a while. Oooooch!" Chance winced along with him as Christopher tried to bend over to pull on his socks.

"They think you're cute," Chance said. "I heard them whispering your name and giggling."

Christopher groaned again as he pulled his suspenders into place. "Just don't encourage them. I live in fear that someday the three of them will ambush me and lock me naked in a cold, dark cellar until I agree to marry one of 'em."

"Or move to Utah and marry all three. At least you'd eat good, if they cook like their mother does. Hey, maybe you should marry Mrs. Gustav. That'd solve a whole bunch of problems."

"Saints preserve us."

After breakfast, with a raw beefsteak he'd cajoled from Mrs. Gustav pressed to his black eye, Christopher returned to his room. He was leafing one-handed through his mail when the telephone rang.

"Your shooter's here," Dan Hogan said. "Come have that chat you were wantin'."

Twenty minutes later, Chance and Christopher arrived at the Green Lantern.

Chance thought Willie "Banjo" Barnes was about the most unlikely looking paid assassin he'd ever seen, and said so.

"That's 'cause I ain't any assassin, paid or otherwise," the scrawny man in an ill-fitting suit said. "I'm a hotel thief. A second-story man."

And a smart one. Unlike Hogan, who'd burst into whoops of laughter when he saw Christopher's face, Barnes offered no comments on, or jokes about, black eyes. Every few minutes he reached for a water glass with both manacled hands, and drank noisily.

He probably weighed a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, and stood maybe five-foot-nine. His long, narrow face sported a sparse new salt-and-pepper mustache and scraggily beard. His freshly shaved scalp gleamed with sweat. He plucked at a button on his vest that dangled by two or three threads, his gaze flitting from Hogan to Christopher to the two muscle-bound enforcers who'd removed him from the train, thrown him into a car, and frog-marched him into the Green Lantern.

"I never hurt anybody before, I swear it."

"You know you killed the wrong lady," Christopher said.

"Hell yes, I know - now. It was in all the papers. I can read. How was I supposed to know it was the sister?"

"A sixteen year old schoolgirl," Christopher said, his voice dripping icicles.

Banjo cringed in his seat. "It wasn't supposed to happen that way. I'm sorry, okay?"

"It wouldn't have happened at all if you'd followed the Code," Dan Hogan said. "You know you'll be servin' life for this. Damn shame they abolished the death penalty."

"I wouldn't've done it 'cept the sheba's husband swore there wouldn't be no heat. Said he had connections. Well, I'm not gonna take the fall alone. He paid me. That makes him as guilty as I am, even if he did only give me half of what he promised. Loaned me the gun, too."

Dan Hogan leaned forward across his desk. "Can you prove to me Humphrey Macklin hired you?"

"Why should I? This ain't no court of law."

"Pretend it is," Christopher said in a whisper that made Chance almost feel sorry for Barnes.

"What becomes of you," Hogan said, "largely depends on what I and my associates decide to do. Cooperate, tell the truth, and you'll get a nice cozy cell at Bayport. Maybe even parole. Dummy up, and I'll turn you over to those gentlemen for a nice long ride out of town and some brand new cement overshoes. Macklin gets away Scot-free."

Like hell he will, Christopher thought, but kept silent while Banjo considered his options.

"I got no witnesses," Banjo finally said. "He didn't want a middle-man. I still got the gun. Damn cheapskate didn't even put bullets in it, and tol' me to give it back when the job was done. I kept it 'cause I'm still waiting for what he owes me." Manacles clinked as he set the empty glass on Hogan's desk. "Can I have some more water please?"

"What kind of gun," Chance asked.

"One-a them Colt's automatics. Don't like 'em much, they jam too easy, but this one's a sweetheart. You wanna see it? It's right here-"

As Banjo twisted to reach his coat pocket, the two enforcers leaped to grab him. At the same moment, Hogan shoved his chair backward. He collided with the enforcers, tumbling all three men and his chair to the floor. Christopher lunged across Hogan's desk to snag Banjo's cuffed wrists. The enforcers scrambled up and the sound of revolvers cocking brought the melee to a stand-still. One of the enforcers helped Hogan to his feet.

"What's the matter with you two?" Hogan shouted. "You don't know enough to frisk a guy before you bring him in here?"

"We figured the guys who had him already did," one of the enforcers said, his voice a whine. "They came all the way from Ogden with him." He picked up Hogan's chair, very gently set it down, and dusted off the seat with his handkerchief.

"Could be one of us ought to search him again," Christopher murmured, then coughed to hide the snigger Chance couldn't repress.

"You do it," Hogan said, tugging on his lapels to straighten his coat. "I don't trust these two ijits to find the damn outhouse on a hot day."

Christopher reached into Banjo's coat pocket and withdrew a small nickel-plated Colt's .38 automatic. It was a beautiful gun, the frame intricately engraved, pale ivory grips. He whistled in admiration. After removing the clip and checking for a round in the chamber, he sniffed the barrel.

"Hasn't been cleaned. Shame to treat such a sweet little tickler so bad."

"The problem is," Dan Hogan continued as if the interruption had never happened, "he could have gotten that gun anywhere. And how do we know it's the gun used on Willa Miller?"

"Ask Macklin if it ain't his gun," Banjo said. "Hell, ask the wife. He said _she_ gave it to him, to scare off bank robbers. Thought using it to bump her off was funny as hell."

It should be simple enough to demonstrate, Chance thought. He was no ballistics specialist; his expertise lay in eliminating evidence, not preserving it. But he knew as much as any regular viewer of true crime television shows about matching marks on cartridges and slugs to the gun that fired them. He wasn't sure how far the science had progressed by 1925, but as Banjo said, this wasn't a court of law. All they had to do was nudge Dapper Dan in the right direction.

"You can look at the marks on the brass from test-rounds fired from this gun," he said, hoping no one noticed Christopher's brogue had disappeared. "Compare them with the shell-casings at the crime scene. If the marks match, you've got your murder weapon."

He got the impression Christopher was following him with sudden interest, but was met with blank stares from the enforcers, Hogan, and Banjo. Where was CSI when you needed them?

Chance tried again. "If I can show you marks on the ejected cartridges from Willa's bedroom that match marks on cartridges we shoot with Macklin's gun, will it be proof enough it's the gun Banjo here used?"

Dan Hogan rubbed his jaw. "I think I read something about that. Article in the _Saturday Evening Post._ A month or two ago…."

'I saw that, too,' Christopher sent, then said aloud "'Fingerprinting Bullets'. Talks about how the Bureau of Forensic Ballistics in New York is workin' to provide firearms identification services for cities that don't have their own facilities."

"Show me those marks," Hogan said, "and I'll be satisfied."

'Christopher,' Chance sent, 'where's the brass from the crime scene?'

**… … … … … …**

"The mother wouldn't let my men into the girl's bedroom after the body was removed," St. Paul Police Lieutenant Swenson told Hogan over the telephone. "Even so, why pick up spent cartridges?"

"Fingerprints!" Hogan slammed the receiver back into its hook.

"We need to get those cartridges before they're lost," Christopher said. "Hogan, come with us - me, so you'll know we're collecting the shells from Willa's room."

"I'll do that. Just let me help Tweedledum and Tweedledee put this boy-o on ice."

Hogan shooed Barnes and the enforcers ahead of him out a side exit from his office.

"Call Althea's parents," Chance said. "Tell them not to let anyone touch Willa's room 'til we get there."

Grabbing one of the telephones on Hogan's desk, Christopher vigorously jiggled the receiver hook to summon the operator.

"Hello, Central? Central, get me the Whitney Miller residence on Dayton Avenue. Yes, St. Paul."

Chance viewed the process with captivated interest. He'd seen cross-town telephone calls made by telephone operators in movies about the gangster era, but never expected to witness the complicated task first hand.

After a time, Christopher hung up. "No answer."

"We've got to get over there," Chance said. "Where's Hogan?"

"Right here, me lad." Hogan returned through the side door just in time to hear his name. "I'll have me car brought around-"

"Mine's right out front," Christopher said. "C'mon."


	8. Chapter 8

8

CHAPTER 8

St. Paul, Minnesota  
>Saturday, August 15<br>1925

Hogan cast Christopher's runabout a disparaging glance as he climbed in and braced for the customary lurch Model T's gave when put in gear. He yelped when the 'souped up' vehicle leaped from the curb with enough oomph to make him grab for his derby. By the end of the block they were rolling flat out at 42 miles per hour.

The Millers, Christopher informed Chance, were an upper middle-class family whose patriarch managed St. Paul's busy F. & W. Woolworth & Company's department store. While Christopher saw no difference between women who worked in such stores or factories and women who worked in brothels to earn a living, he couldn't help smiling when he thought how society matrons trying on gloves or examining chemises at Woolworth's would react upon learning the manager's wife was once one of Nina Clifford's ladies.

Althea's family home, a Dayton Avenue row-house in the Ramsey Hill district, might have been transported en masse from San Francisco. Chance felt right at home amidst these precursors to modern day condominiums - long, narrow apartments, frequently three stories tall. Each interior unit shared an inside wall with its neighbor and all shared a single roof. The Millers', like so many St. Paul structures, was built of common red brick, but decorative designs achieved with different size, color, or position of the bricks embellished the front façade.

Identical white stone stair steps graced all four entrances, but only one door, second from the end, bore a black mourning wreath.

Christopher brought the runabout to a precipitous halt at the curb. Hogan clambered out and the men trotted up the entrance steps. Infected by Christopher's urgency, Hogan thumbed the doorbell again and again until at last the front door opened.

The tall Negress wore a black uniform, a rumpled white apron, and a white cap. She carried a feather duster tucked under one arm. She eyed them as if they were fish mongers peddling yesterday's catch. "You don't need to ring the bell more than once," she said. "How may I help you."

Christopher thought she sounded less like a domestic servant than a school teacher addressing a scapegrace third grader. He'd bet she ruled the household.

"I need to see Whitney. Right away," Hogan said.

"This is Saturday. Mr. Miller will be at his office until one P.M. If you'd care to leave your card - "

"Mrs. Miller, then. Tell her it's Dan Hogan."

The Negress sniffed. "Maybe you didn't notice the wreath. This household is in mourning."

"Fatima," Christopher said, "You are Fatima, am I right? I'm working for Althea. We're trying to capture the man who murdered her sister. We don't need to disturb Mrs. Miller if you could let us see Willa's room - "

The woman's eyes flashed fire. All trace of the dignified diction she used when answering the door fled her voice. "I _know_ who you are! _Reporters_! Of all the low-down, conniving, underhanded tricks to play on a grieving family - "

"Who is it, Fatima?"

The low, sweet voice sounded very much like Althea's. Christopher felt his heart stutter even though he knew it must be her mother.

"Me, Danny," said Hogan, causing Christopher's head to swivel. " 'Tis sorry I am to intrude at a time like this. This is Christopher Chance. He's a detective. We have a line on the man hired to kill your daughter. We need to have a look at her room. For evidence."

"Of course. Fatima, thank you. Everything's fine. Go back to your duties."

"Yes'm."

Fatima shot them a withering look, marched down the hallway, and disappeared. In a moment they heard the murmer of an electric vacuum cleaner.

"You'll forgive me if I don't accompany you," Mrs. Miller said, motioning them inside. "I…can't bear to go near it. It's on the second floor, last door on the left."

Willa's room was pitch black, the ceiling light off, drapes drawn, the two dormer windows giving onto a communal back yard tightly closed. Christopher felt for a light switch, found it, and pressed the "on" button.

"Damn."

Expecting stained, rumpled bedding and the smell of blood and cordite lingering in the closed-up space, Chance and Christopher gazed with dismay at the spotless bedroom. Someone had cleaned up every speck of blood spatter. The bed had been remade as if Willa would return tonight and climb between the freshly ironed sheets. The only detectable odor was furniture polish recently applied to the vanity, chest of drawers, and wardrobe.

The carpet, except for an area beside the bed where it felt somewhat damp, looked recently vacuumed, with the vacuum cleaner's wheel tracks visible here and there in the pile.

'Check under the bed,' Chance sent Christopher. 'Maybe just this once the maid got lazy.'

Christopher looked under the bed, beneath the vanity, moved the chest of drawers before giving up. "Nothing," he said, getting to his feet.

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then Chance sent, 'Hear that?'

'Hear what?'

'That sound. Someone's vacuuming downstairs.'

'So?'

'So c'mon!'

Christopher pounded downstairs with Hogan at his heels. They followed the sound of the vacuum cleaner, which increased from distant humming to a muffled growl, to a deafening roar when they opened the parlor door. Above the din, Fatima was singing: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me-e-e-ee…." and rhythmically pushing the cleaner head back and forth over the carpet.

Her back to the door, she neither saw nor heard the men enter. When Hogan touched her arm, she uttered an ear-piercing shriek, dropped the cleaner handle, and grabbed a fireplace poker from its stand.

"Keep away from me, you devil, or I'll - Oh. It's you two." Fatima glared at the men, poker held like a baseball bat.

Christopher righted the vacuum cleaner, found the switch near the top of the handle and pressed it. The room became very quiet.

Fatima put the poker down. Her hands fisted on her hips. "What's wrong wit'chu people, sneakin' up on a woman tryin' to do her work?"

"Take it easy, Fatima," Christopher said. "We didn't mean to scare you. We just need to ask some questions."

"I got three more rooms to clean. Got no time to answer questions. You a detective, why don't you go dee-tect who killed poor little Miss Willa?"

"That's what we're doing," Christopher said. "That's why we're interrupting. It won't take long, I promise."

"Humpf."

"Was it yourself who cleaned Willa's room after the shooting?" Christopher asked.

"You see anyone else workin' round here? Cook's in the kitchen where she belong, but'chu see any housemaids dustin' or carpet-sweepin'? All you see is me - _The Housekeeper_ - doin' _maid_ chores 'cause they all run off, scairt the killer gonna come get them next. Like to _see_ him try with me."

'Me, too,' Chance sent.

Christopher smothered a grin. Banjo Barnes wouldn't stand a chance.

"It must have been difficult for you, Fatima," he said. "You had to remove the bed sheets - "

"Burned 'em. And scrubbed poor Miss Willa's blood from the wall an' the carpet. Like to never got the blood outta that carpet."

Only someone listening very closely, as Christopher was, would have noticed the slight break in the woman's voice when she spoke Willa's name. "Did you vacuum Willa's room after the shooting?"

"Course I vacuum it. Someone s'posed to vacuum it every morning, soon as Miss Willa come down for breakfast. Only I couldn't 'til after I clean up the blood, and I couldn't do that 'til this morning when I ask may I clean the room before the blood start to stink."

"Fatima," he said, "did you notice any shell casings in the bedding or on the floor?"

"Shell casings? What's they, like seashells?"

"No, metal cylinder-shaped things that bullets come out of."

"Oh, them. Vacuum cleaner wouldn't touch 'em."

"So…what did you do with them?"

"Toss 'em in the burn-barrel."

Grumbling with every step, Fatima led the men through the rear entrance, down a utilitarian concrete staircase, and across the back yard. Beside a tool shed stood a 55-gallon drum half full of ash and as yet unburned trash and debris.

She pointed. "In there." She turned on her heel and marched back to the house. Halfway there, she stopped. "They's tool in the shed. Put 'em away if you use them. You need in the house again, ring the bell-_-once_."

After about twenty minutes of sifting through the debris, Christopher spotted the twinkle of untarnished .38 caliber brass.

"Here we go."

"Now what?" Hogan asked.

"Now we go see a friend of mine."

* * *

><p>The Pinkerton Detective Agency rented space in an office building on 6th Street in Minneapolis, not far from Donaldson's Department Store. The men drove directly there.<p>

The metal risers of an outside staircase clanged and clattered as the men climbed it to the second floor side entrance. Inside, a waiting area held chairs, a leather couch, a rack filled with magazines, pedestal ash-trays. A wrought iron stand with a five-gallon glass tank dispensed drinking water into paper cups pointed like ice cream cones. Chance knew he was gaping, but couldn't help it, particularly when he spotted a directory marquee listing the floor's tenants. After each name a stylized hand shaped exactly like a computer curser's pointing finger indicated which of three hallways to follow.

Christopher led the way. Three doors down an empty, echoing hall was a sign bearing the Pinkerton name and their motto, "We never sleep." The illustration of a wide-awake eye seemed to probe them with menacing intensity. Through an open transom came the rattle of typewriter keys. A bell tinkled when Christopher opened the door.

The receptionist, a stunning redhead in an intricately pleated white shirtwaist pounded her typewriter at a furious pace.

Glancing up from a pile of hand-written pages, she said, "Oh, it's you, Christopher - Oh, my gracious, what happened to your face?" She stood, her green-eyed gaze zeroing in on Hogan. "Did _he_ do that to you?"

"No! No, Hazel, this is my…associate, Mr. Hogan. We came to see Mike Tilghman - "

"Are you sure he's not wanted?" She pushed rimless eye-glasses higher on her nose and peered at Hogan. "I'm almost positive I've seen that mug in the Rogues Gallery. Take your hat off again, would you, bub?"

Christopher wished he could give Hazel a good kick in the ankle to shut her up. If Hogan took umbrage, it was all over.

Hogan, however, gave Hazel a toothy smile, removed his hat and made a courtly bow. "I'm entirely harmless, Madam, I assure you."

"Hazel!" Christopher said, "would you please be seein' if Mike's around?"

"He's around. He's in the lab - where else?"

"Okay if we go in?" Robert Pinkerton II didn't like former agents, or anyone else, for that matter, wandering unescorted through the premises.

"Go ahead. You know the way."

"Thanks, Hazel, you're a peach. If ya weren't a married lady, I'd elope with ya." He leaned across the desk and planted a kiss on her cheek, then gestured Hogan toward a closed door leading from the reception area.

As the door swung shut, Chance heard Hazel mutter, "But he knows I'm not married…," then add some very unladylike comments about Christopher's forebears.

'She's a real honey,' Chance sent. I think she likes you.'

'The same as wolves like spring lambs. And don't go askin' how I know.'

'Bet I can guess,' Chance sent, and to his utter amazement, felt Christopher blush.

**… … … … … …**

It was far from a fully equipped forensics lab. Pinkerton's didn't need one. It had come together piecemeal with clutter carried in by agents needing to satisfy their curiosity about various items of evidence. Mike Tilghman, with his background in chemistry and physics, had inherited the job of overseeing the experiments and making sure untrained agents didn't accidently blow up the building.

To Chance it looked like a hodge-podge of battered lab equipment, glass-fronted display cases filled with junk, mis-matched worktables and what might be a functioning still tucked away under the sink. In its day, moonshine called 'Minnesota 13' enjoyed a nationwide reputation. Gramps used to rave about the mellow taste and sneak-up-on-you kick. Chance wondered if some was being produced here, right under Allen P. the Second's nose.

To Christopher, the workroom was a wonderland of mysterious gadgetry, the most compelling of which was the comparison microscope Mike build himself, using plans he'd obtained from the Bureau of Forensic Ballistics.

Mike Tilghman, a slender young man in horn-rim glasses and a grubby lab-coat, started to shake hands, saw Christopher's knuckles, and punched him in the shoulder instead, with enough force to stagger him.

"Still haven't learned to keep your guard up high enough, I see," Mike said.

'Likes to box,' Christopher sent. 'Don't let him talk us into a sparring match.'

'We can take him. He's never KO-ed Tommy Jergensen.'

**… … … … … …**

"You know nothing we do here will hold up in court," Mike said when Christopher finished explaining what he wanted. "I'm not qualified as a ballistics expert even if the court system here agreed to admit the evidence."

"Doesn't matter, as long as Mr. Hogan here is satisfied."

Mike glanced at Hogan, who nodded.

"Okay, show me what you've got."

"Shell casings from the crime scene," Christopher said, placing the items on a worktable. "Weapon that we need to demonstrate fired them." He put the .38 beside the fired cartridges. "Fresh ammunition." He set the clip next to the pistol.

"No slugs?"

"We'll have to make do with shell casings," Christopher said. "The bullets weren't recovered. The victim was a schoolgirl. The parents refused to allow an autopsy."

"Damnation. Who'd want to kill a schoolgirl? Was it an accident?" Mike asked.

"No accident. Long story. I'll buy ya a beer when we're done here and tell ya all about it."

"Let's go fire some test rounds."

Mike led them to an alcove lined with tall wooden file cabinets. A wooden crate packed with thick batting, an opening in one end, sat in the middle of the floor. Mike pulled a wad of cotton from one of the file drawers and packed some in each ear. He offered the wad to the other men.

'Take it,' Chance sent when Christopher waived it off, 'or when you're fifty and deaf as a post, you'll wish you had.'

Handling the pistol with obvious relish, Mike loaded it and fired through the opening into the crate. Even with cotton earplugs, it sounded like a cannon going off. He unloaded the pistol, handed it back to Christopher, then opened the hinged top of the crate. Four spent casings lay in the tattered batting. Mike collected them, dug out the flattened slugs, and closed the crate.

"Here's what you'll need to look for," Mike said as they returned to the main work area. "When the firing pin strikes the cartridge, it leaves a tiny indentation. If the two cartridges have been fired by the same weapon, the size, shape, and location of the marks will be identical."

Mike mounted one crime scene cartridge and one test casing, and placed them under the microscope. He studied them for a moment, made some adjustments, then stepped back. "See what you think."

Christopher gestured for Hogan to look.

"You're looking at the ends of the two cartridges side by side," Mike said. "See how the dent in each is identical in size and position? Now, here's a cartridge from another pistol, same caliber." He replaced the test cartridge with one he'd taken from a drawer. "As you can see, they look nothing alike."

"Damn microscope gives me a headache," Hogan said, straightening and rubbing his eyes. "You do this all day?"

"Nah, sometimes when my eyes start to hurt, I take a brake and go pester Hazel." He grinned at Christopher.

"And a sight for sore eyes that one is," Hogan agreed. "Too bad she's married."

"Oh, she's not - "

"Mike," Christopher said. "Will ya show the man the ejector marks?"

"Oh. Sure." Mike removed both cartridges and replaced them with a second set turned so their sides were visible. "Now, see those tiny scratches? Those are extractor and ejector marks. Again you'll see they're identical."

Hogan peered again. "Well, I'm sold. That's quite a demonstration, young man."

"One more thing," Mike said, replacing the mounted cartridges with the first set. "You maybe didn't notice it, but this is the icing on the cake. See that little crimp on the edge of both cartridges? It's not supposed to be there. There's some sort of flaw in the works of this gun that's causing it. Your case just went from 99.9 percent probable to 100 percent certainty."

Hogan glanced around the lab, then asked, "Is there a telephone I can use?"

"Let's go back to Reception," Mike said. "You can get an outside line from there."

Hazel had stepped away from her desk. Mike handed Hogan a telephone, then carefully shook hands with Christopher. As the men made plans to meet for a beer, Chance was certain he heard Hogan ask the operator for Lefty's Garage.


	9. Chapter 9

5

CHAPTER 9

St. Paul, Minnesota  
>Monday, August 17<br>1925

Dawn was a faint pearly pink in the east when Lefty emerged from the Macklin mansion's garage. He glanced swiftly around. Not much risk anyone would catch him this early. Even if someone came outside, the garage, a converted carriage house, was out of sight behind a stand of trees. Lefty started up the hill to the sniper's nest where he'd left his Gladstone bag.

Now came the tricky part.

It wasn't processing the nitroglycerin - although that was tricky enough. Waiting around, knowing what could happen if something went wrong while old, deteriorating dynamite sweated droplets into a yellow pool like dog piss, could make a man's nerves go twitchy. Just ask One-Eye Pete, the old miner who'd taught him how to do it.

Transferring the destabilized fluid into a vial small enough to attach unnoticed to a vehicle was no walk in the park, but wasn't so bad if you kept the stuff cool and didn't shake it or for God's sake drop it.

Even planting it nice and snug against the gasoline tank of Humphrey's sweet little Rolls Royce Landau Coupe wasn't difficult. Lefty could attach explosive devices to motorcars in his sleep.

No, the tricky part was creating a bomb he could detonate at the exact moment his target came within range, without having to close an electrical circuit to trigger it. It was the only way to insure an innocent by-stander wasn't hurt. Lefty was a man of few principles, but this one was set in concrete.

Those electro-whatsits waves Tesla always talked about would maybe someday turn all sorts of things off or on without a connecting wire, but right now the technology didn't exist. So, Lefty thought, you make do with what you got: electro-whatsits waves, egg shell thin glass, and highly volatile nitro.

Make do and wait for the target to drive off as he did every weekday morning. He should be leaving for the bank any minute now. Lefty made two last-minute adjustments to the device he'd…borrowed. Chances were good Tesla never even missed it. It never worked the way the inventor intended and Tesla probably would have given it to him if he'd asked. All things considered, it was better old Nik-o never knew what happened to it.

A low, tooth-vibrating hum silenced birds and started neighborhood dogs howling.

"Uh-oh," Lefty muttered. He hadn't anticipated stool-pigeon mutts.

The back door opened. A man carrying a briefcase clumped down the porch steps, pausing half-way as if wondering what had riled the dogs. After a moment, he continued down the path to the garage.

Lefty couldn't imagine what the gal had ever seen in the gaunt, stooped figure to make her marry him. Dollar signs, he supposed. Every woman he'd ever met was a gold-digger in one respect or another.

Humphrey started the Coupe, let it idle a few minutes to warm up, then backed the vehicle from the garage. Lefty turned a dial. The hum grew louder. Lefty's fillings resonated painfully with the oscillations.

The blast sent a mushroom-shaped fireball thirty feet in the air. The Coupe leaped upward also, then shattered into a rain of red-hot shrapnel. Anything more combustible than iron was incinerated before it touched the ground. Humphrey's body came down in three charred chunks as the aroma of roasted meat filled the air.

"Ho-o-oly Moses!" Lefty whispered. That last batch of nitro had some kick.

A door slammed. A woman screamed. With practiced movements Lefty shut down the device and crammed it into the Gladstone. One by one the dogs stopped howling. Lefty picked up his bag and sauntered down the hill, his mission completed. Damn shame about the Coupe, though.

**… … … … … …**

The Gustav sisters still kept to the kitchen at breakfast, well away from the dining table. For two days Christopher and Chance had endured the cold scrutiny of Mrs. Gustav and the curious glances other boarders shot their way.

'Still kind of chilly, isn't it?' Chance sent as they left the table. 'Maybe you shouldn't have said "floozy".'

'I think it was "whore house" that got me in trouble. I'm wishin' I'd thought of it weeks ago. I can't remember ever enjoying me meals as much as I have the last couple days with no girlies hoverin' over me.' Christopher sent Chance the mental equivalent of a grin. 'You know, 'tis almost like having a brother come stay with me.'

'I never had one,' Chance sent. 'At least, not that I know of.' He was going to miss Christopher when - if - they found a way to separate. They really needed to work on that.

They had just returned to the office when Lefty entered, as was his custom, without knocking. He carried a rolled newspaper, which he unfurled with a flourish.

BANKER KILLED IN MYSTERY EXPLOSION the headline read.

Chance and Christopher had already seen the story at breakfast, in two other twin cities' newspapers, but glanced at this later edition to see if anything new had been printed.

'I'd lay odds,' Chance sent as they scanned the article, 'our friend here had a hand in this.'

'No bet. Just the same, we'll not be squealin' on him. That's not how things're done here. Besides, if Lefty didn't pick him off, it was someone else who owed Hogan a favor. Now we owe him one, whoever it was. Althea's out of danger.'

Chance felt relief flooding Christopher's thoughts. That, and something else he could only define as warm and fuzzy. It made him think of Katherine.

"Thought that might interest one or the other of you," Lefty said.

They had taken Lefty into their confidence and told him about the two personas residing in Christopher's body. Several minutes passed before he had stopped laughing.

"You're serious, bub?"

"As a heart attack," Chance said.

"Like…Siamese twins? Only instead of two bodies hooked together, you were born with two minds? Sounds like a carnival act. Can you read each other's minds?"

"We weren't born this way," Christopher told him. "It just happened a few nights go."

"And it's not really mind-reading," Chance added. "It's more like using a two-way radio."

Lefty snagged Christopher's attention with a complicated description of his next project for improving the Model T, leaving Chance able to move their body unhindered about the office. Something had been nagging him, something he'd noticed, something important he couldn't quite put his finger on.

He paused beside the bookcase. Yeah. Something there. The morning he 'arrived', he'd noticed the variety of reading material Christopher had accumulated. They might not be blood kin, but they shared the same love of books. Something he'd seen shelved here had inserted itself into his subconscious, and was digging and scratching to reach the surface.

Christopher had divided his collection into fiction, non-fiction, and magazines. In the fiction section Chance found _Women in Love _by D. H. Lawrence next to a copy of _Tom Swift and his Airship_ in a full color dust jacket. Moving on to non-fiction, he found bound years of "Engineering & Mining Journal". Several loose issues of "American Motorist"_._ Mathematics texts. _The Model T Ford Car, Its Construction, Operation and Repair_ by Victor Wilfred Page rubbed covers with _Wings of War, an Account of the Important Contribution of the United States to Aircraft Invention, Engineering, Development and Production during the World War._ The title was almost too long to fit on the cover of the book.

"This is some collection," Chance said. "Have you read them all?"

"Not even well started," Christopher said. "So many books, so little time"

Lefty looked so perplexed by this spoken exchange, both men had to laugh.

Then Chance spotted a small dark volume half hidden among the other, larger books: _The Inventions and Writings of Nikola Tesla_, compiled by Thomas Commerford Martin. This was it! The publication date was 1894, more than thirty years ago, but Tesla, the man who discovered and developed alternating current, was alive and well in 1925.

Chance thought he knew just about all there was to know about Tesla, thanks to Baptist's fascination with watches. He owned one which once belonged to the inventor, and never missed an opportunity to lecture enthusiastically on Tesla's accomplishments. A contemporary and rival of Thomas Edison, for a time Tesla was considered a genius. Later on, when his experiments veered into the realm of time travel, people forgot how much he had contributed, and called him a crack-pot. But by the beginning of the twenty-first century, many of Tesla's theories and inventions related to "normal" science were being reexamined with eyes newly opened by technology and materials unavailable in the first half of the twentieth. The man's amazing gifts were not just acknowledged, but his inventions being put into operation.

"What do you know about Nikola Tesla," he asked Christopher.

"The inventor? Just what I've read in magazines. He's always publishing one article or another, telling all the other scientists how wrong they are about everything. If you ask me, he's crazy."

"Crazy like a fox," Chance said. "The man is so far beyond his time, it's mind-boggling."

"Mind _what_?"

"Bog - Never mind. It means incredible. Look, do you have any idea how we might contact him? If anyone can find a way to separate us, it's him."

"Not the foggiest."

"I do," Lefty said. "I know him."

"You do? How'd you happen to meet him?" Chance asked.

"Easy. Back when I was with Rickenbacker - "

"Rickenbacker? _Eddie _Rickenbacker? You know _him_, too?"

"Yeah, I know Eddie Rickenbacker, too. I worked for him."

Chance took a very firm grip on his incredulity. It didn't seem possible two such important historic figures could be connected to this one small man standing not two feet away.

"I _told_ you - or maybe it was the _other _one of you." Lefty's voice dripped with the same skepticism Chance had just managed to throttle back. "Like I said, back when I was with Rickenbacker, Tesla was working with Budd's Manufacturing Company out in New Kensington. They mostly were working on auto bodies, but Tesla thought he could come up with a new type of motor, a gasoline turbine. Eddie sent me out to see if we could incorporate it into his automobiles."

"And could you?" Chance asked. He had no idea the World War One flying ace and famed racecar driver was also involved in automobile manufacturing.

"Nah. Should've worked, but it didn't. Maybe someday…." Lefty sighed and looked wistful. "Should've seen some of the stuff Tesla did do. He showed me a gadget he invented that generated radio waves. They're like sound waves, only…different. He put a water glass on a rock and we backed off maybe a hundred yards. Turned that thing on and ka-pow! Water glass shattered like someone picked it off with a Tommy gun. And you know Tommy guns ain't worth shit over fifty yards. He says the invention will bring world peace one day, if he can get Uncle Sam to buy it."

"Or world destruction," Christopher said, his voice very soft. "Chance…is that going to happen?"

"It's come close," Chance said. "But not so far. Listen, Lefty, is there any way you can contact Tesla, arrange a meeting with him?"


	10. Chapter 10

6

Chapter 10

St. Paul, Minnesota / New Kensington, Pennsylvania  
>Tuesday, August 18 Wednesday, August 19  
>1925<p>

They left St. Paul by train the following morning and arrived in Chicago in time to eat lunch at Union Station's cafeteria. They bought tickets for a Pennsylvania Railroad sleeping car that would deposit them in New Kensington the following day. Neither Lefty nor Christopher found the trip anything but boring. Chance couldn't get enough of the luxuries of railroad travel in the Twenties. The Pullman cars were outfitted like miniature mansions, with plush carpets, exotic wood trim, velvet drapes. Meals were served on gold-rimmed china with flatware almost too heavy to lift.

Lefty found the right person to bribe, and following their dinner, two generous water glasses arrived, filled to the brim with Minnesota 13. Chance had never tasted better whiskey.

**… … … … … …**

From the New Kensington depot, with Lefty at the helm, they navigated their way via street-car to the Budd Manufacturing plant. To facilitate transporting plant employees who lived in the city to and from the job-site, New Kensington had laid street-car track almost to the plant's main gate.

They rode the out-bound car en route to collect workers going home at four P.M., then caught one of the jitneys Budd provided to carry employees between the street-car terminus and the main gate guard shack.

"Hey, Sarge," Lefty greeted the uniformed gate guard, "Long time, no see."

"Hell's bells if it ain't Lefty Caruso!" Sarge thrust a ham-sized paw out for Lefty to shake. "Where the hell you been, on the lam?"

"Something like that. Can we get a lift to Tesla's digs? He's expecting us."

"Lemme check the let-'em-in log. They've got so all-fired worked up over security a man has to get an okay to take a piss. Okay, here we go. _Lionel_ Caruso? Son of a bitch, I always thought you were born with the moniker Lefty. And Christopher Chance, that you?"

"I am." Christopher reached for his wallet, prepared to show his PI license.

"Never mind. If you're with Lefty, you're jake. Lemme whistle up a ride for you. You wanna leave your bags here at the gate?"

It wasn't really a request, and Christopher handed over his suitcase. Lefty clutched his Gladstone.

"This goes with me. Search it if you like."

Minutes later another guard arrived riding a motorcycle with a sidecar attached.

"Run 'em out to see Tesla, will ya, Joe?"

**… … … … … …**

Tesla's "digs" stood a good half-mile from any other plant structure, a concrete bunker the width of a football field and perhaps three times one's length. Bars covered all the window. A barred security door, open now, could be closed to seal off the entrance. At the far end, a tower looking something like a windmill frame or oil derrick rose roughly twice the building's height. A protrusion-studded copper sphere balanced at its top, gleaming like fire in the westering sun.

Joe scarcely waited for the men to dismount before zooming off.

"What's with him?" Chance asked.

"The place makes some people nervous," Lefty said. "Like they're scared it's gonna blow up or something. Pathetic."

"Is it?" Christopher asked, watching the motorcycle disappear over a rise.

"Hasn't so far." Lefty rapped 'shave-and-a-haircut' on the building's front door.

At age 69, Nikola Tesla, going gray and rail thin, still stood as tall and erect as the electric power line poles he loved to ridicule. Extreme gauntness combined with his immaculate three piece black suit made him look more like a cadaver escaped from its coffin than a respected inventor.

"Lefty," he said beckoning them into a cramped reception foyer, "it's a pleasure to see you again. Come in. Come in."

He didn't offer to shake hands. Lefty had warned them Tesla did not like to be touched.

"Nik-o," Lefty said, and grinned when Tesla winced, "this is Christopher Chance. Christopher Chance, Nikola Tesla."

"How do you do?" Tesla said. "Please do _not _call me 'Nik-o' as this abominable troll persists in doing. Tesla will do."

Both Christopher and Chance were struck dumb at seeing the two men standing side by side.

'Damned if they don't look like - ' Christopher sent.

'Mutt and Jeff,' Chance finished, referring to a popular comic strip couple, one of whom was very tall, the other very short.

Lefty opened the Gladstone. He removed an object wrapped in butcher's paper and tied with string. Handing it to Tesla he said, "I meant to get this back to you before now. I was afraid it'd break if I shipped it, so…well, here you are."

Tesla's fingers explored the parcel without removing its wrapping.

"My old electromagnetic wave projector. I wondered what became of it. What were you doing with it? This one is defective. I could never make it do anything but shatter glass."

"Me either," Lefty said. "But shattering glass at a hundred yards impresses the ladies almost as much as that fireball trick of yours."

"Why don't you keep it," Tesla said. "It's old technology. I've built several since that are much more impressive."

Tesla glanced around the foyer as if searching for something. "I thought there would be three of you arriving today. What's become of your other party?"

"He'll be joining us shortly, I'm thinkin'," Christopher said.

During their train trip from St. Paul, the men had discussed how best to approach Tesla with their peculiar story, and decided to let him become comfortable chatting with Christopher before introducing Chance. Chance had suggested Christopher emphasize his brogue, the better to make their duality more apparent, at least in speech.

"Meanwhile," Lefty said, "show Christopher here your fireball trick."

"It's no trick, I assure you," Tesla said. He extended a boney, long-fingered hand to display an empty palm. "Nothing up my sleeves…."

He snapped his fingers and a ball of crimson flame appeared, balanced on Tesla's fingertips. The inventor handled it as if it were a favorite pet, placing it on his shoulder, letting it roll down his arm, then offering it to Christopher.

Christopher gingerly cradled the fireball in his palms. It wasn't hot. It wasn't cold. It felt a little like Jell-o.

"Begorrah!"

'Incredible' Chance sent.

'Mind-boggling,' Christopher agreed.

They passed the fireball to Lefty, who scooped it up and plopped it into a cigar box on the desk behind him. He closed the lid. When he reopened it a moment later, the flame was gone.

"That's remarkable," Christopher said.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Lefty said. "C'mon, Nik-o, let's show him what you got behind that door."

If only I had a cell phone, Chance thought as Tesla led them into his laboratory, or even just an old-fashioned camera.

The laboratory somehow seemed even more vast from the inside than it did from without. At the far end, a gargantuan Tesla coil, Tesla's own creation for producing energy, soared from floor to ceiling twenty feet above. A continuous throb pulsed from the coil. It produced a low humming, like a giant bee hive, and spat sporadic lightning-like bolts of energy from its glowing blue heart.

Mysterious and somehow eerie machinery lined the bunker's walls. Chance could sense Christopher's wonder and awe. What caught Chance's interest were the glowing glass tubes resting in wooden wall racks spaced between the machinery. They looked like fluorescent light tubes, but possessed neither sockets nor wiring nor solar receptors to power them. From time to time a lab-coated technician grabbed one and carried it off to illuminate some dark cranny needing more light.

"As you can see," Tesla said with an all-encompassing wave of his hand, "It is perfectly practical to transmit energy without the use of cumbersome wiring."

Eying the Tesla coil, which chose that moment to emit several ten-foot-long- energy discharges, Chance wasn't so sure. Christopher was ready to run for his life.

Lefty followed Tesla into his office at the rear of the building, skirting the Tesla coil with total nonchalance. Christopher edged as far away from it as he could get.

'Sissy,' Chance sent.

'Better a live coward than chicken fricassee. Did ya see the size of those lightning bolts?'

'I saw Tesla walk right into one and let it tickle him.'

Tesla's office reminded Chance of the Pinkerton lab, on a far grander scale. Gadgets, devices, or components of every imaginable and unimaginable description filled shelves lining the walls and overflowed onto worktables. Piles of hand-written notes and sketches covered any left-over space. Behind Tesla's desk, the only uncluttered surface in the room, a coffee pot burbled on a hot-plate powered by absolutely nothing Chance could discern. Free energy. What this man could have accomplished in the computer age was beyond comprehension.

"Coffee, gentlemen?" Tesla asked, then frowned. "Do you suppose your missing companion has gotten lost? Perhaps I should telephone the guard-"

"That won't be necessary," Chance said. "I'm right here."

**… … … … … …**

"We hoped you might know some way to separate us," Chance said when they finished telling Tesla their story, "and maybe send me home."

"The way they explained it to me," Lefty said when Tesla uttered not a single word in reply, "it's like Siamese twins - only their minds got hooked together instead of their bodies."

"A big over-simplification," Chance said, "but that's about it."

"If you sincerely believe that," Tesla said, "then perhaps you would find it more beneficial to consult a practitioner of psychiatric medicine than a humble inventor like myself. If I am not mistaken, Adolph Meyer is still making consultations - "

"Okay, skip the part about my persona - the Chance persona - being thrown back in time. Isn't it true that brainwaves are a form of energy?"

"Yes."

"And if it's true that electrical energy can be transmitted and brainwaves are essentially energy, couldn't a…collection of brainwaves - let's not call it a mind - be transmitted intact from one point to another?"

"It wouldn't be impossible, I suppose, but - "

"Hold on. Isn't it true those energy waves can be detected and measured?"

"That is true. It's being done. Hans Berger, a German scientist, has recently developed a machine which does exactly that. He calls it an electroencephalographic recorder."

"Call it an EEG for short. Now let's say for the sake of argument that brainwaves are like fingerprints. No two individuals produce exactly the same pattern. If you hooked Christopher up to an EEG and got two differing patterns, would you at least accept we are two distinct individuals?"

"Hmmm." Tesla rubbed his chin. "I suppose that would be a reasonable assumption under the circumstances. The difficulty is, the only…EEG recorder I know of is in Jena, Germany."

Chance felt his hopes sink. He should have realized they couldn't waltz into the nearest hospital and borrow their EEG machine. Tesla had sounded interested. Intrigued, even. But without the EEG, he knew of nothing that would convince Tesla he and Christopher were nothing more than a split personality with delusional complications thrown in.

"Of course, I could build one."

Stunned silence followed Tesla's comment. Finally, Christopher spoke.

"Could ya, now? And how long might that be takin', do ya suppose?"

'Can the sarcasm,' Chance sent, wishing he could elbow Christopher in the ribs. "What he means is, should we come back in a month, or…?"

Tesla smiled. "If Lefty put you up to this, if you are performing an act, you belong on stage. You're really quite good. Give me until tomorrow to think this through. Perhaps I can adapt an existing device. If not, I shall create one."

"You can build a device you've never seen, never thought about, overnight?" Chance asked.

"Oh, I've thought about it - energy is energy, after all. I simply haven't considered experimenting with this type of energy. I said I am a humble inventor. I am also a very swift inventor when I set my mind to it. It will be ready tomorrow afternoon."


	11. Chapter 11

7

CHAPTER 11

New Kensington, Pennsylvania  
>Thursday, August 20<br>1925

Lefty once again proved his value by finding accommodations for them at an inexpensive hotel a short walk from the train depot. Then, saying he had to see a man about a dog, Lefty bounded out the door and clattered down the stairs, the Gladstone firmly in hand.

"What was that all about?" Chance asked, taking the easy chair opposite the bed and propping his feet on an ottoman.

"I'd say he's off to look up an old sweetheart," Christopher said, "or maybe rob a bank."

"He _wouldn't _- would he?"

Christopher shrugged. "With Lefty, who knows. That projector-thing Tesla let him keep worries me. If that's what was used to take out Macklin, maybe it can knock down walls or open vaults."

Abruptly Christopher launched them from the easy chair and began pacing.

After a few minutes Chance asked, "What's eating you? I'm starting to get dizzy."

"I'm gonna marry Althea, now she's free to do so. Once you and I are separated. I'm goin' back to St. Paul and ask her to be my bride."

"That's kind of sudden, isn't it?"

"Sudden it may be, but I know me mind. And me heart."

Chance wasn't so sure about Althea's, but was ready to offer congratulations when reality reared its ugly head. "You can't. You can't marry her."

"And why might that be?" Chance could taste Christopher's rage. "Once I've rid meself of you, always lookin' over me shoulder - "

"Because in 1927, you die."

There was a very, very long silence.

"Sez who?" Christopher finally managed.

"Says the obituary I found - " he stopped himself from saying 'on the Internet' and substituted, " - in a library newspaper archive. I found three altogether. You die in 1927. Your successor dies in 1954. His successor dies in 1975. His successor, the man I took over for, dies in 2004." Helping me. "Can you risk Althea being killed too? Do you want her to have to bury you?"

"How? How do I…die?"

"Fire, I think." He didn't remember. At the time he located the death notice, it never occurred to him he might one day wish he'd memorized the details.

Christopher took a few more distracted paces. "Did the obituary happen to mention where it is I come to meet me Maker?"

Chance hesitated. He'd read enough science fiction to believe messing with history was dangerous. How much would telling what little he knew, giving Christopher the opportunity to avoid the location, alter history?

"All I know is Minneapolis."

"I was wonderin' if it happened in a lunatic asylum. Because that's where we'll be residin', the both of us, if this separation doesn't happen."

* * *

><p>New Kensington, Pennsylvania<br>Friday, August 21  
>1925<p>

Lefty returned to the hotel the following morning in time to join Chance and Christopher for a late breakfast. It was too soon to return to Tesla's bunker, so they walked downtown. As on the train from St. Paul, Chance was fascinated by the old-time sights, the five and dime store with merchandise actually selling for a nickel, ice cream parlors serving ice cream utterly devoid of sugar substitutes and preservatives. Drug stores that sold only pharmaceuticals. Christopher bought postcards and spent some time writing to Althea, Nina Clifford, and his landlady. Postage for each card cost a penny.

Riding the street-car to the Budd plant, while Lefty dozed Chance and Christopher contemplated the chances for a successful separation.

After a time, Christopher sent, 'Ya don't remember any details about…me death?'

'No. I wasn't looking for details. Just trying to piece together a few things.'

'But I do die in a fire.'

'I'm pretty sure of it.'

'Funny thing about fire,' Christopher sent. 'It has a way of makin' positive identification of a body a wee bit difficult.'

Chance was silent as he mulled over Christopher's comment. Then he began to smile.

**… … … … … … …**

Tesla was all but dancing with excitement as he ushered the men into his lab. He waved several long strips of graph paper as if they were banners proclaiming repeal of the Volstead Act.

"This is astonishing. Beyond astonishing. I've been testing my EEG recorder on volunteers. Not one man's pattern duplicates another's. Of course my sample is too small to be definitive, but under the circumstances, I'm prepared to accept your assertion that each person's pattern is unique."

"So now you'll test me? Us? See if we produce two distinct patterns?" Chance asked.

"Correct. Have a seat and I'll attach the electrodes."

Chance hoisted himself onto a make-shift examination table.

On a cart beside the table he saw a black multi-geared device with a revolving drum which held a roll of graph paper. An arm with a pen-nib tip could be lowered to draw a line on the paper, producing a chart. A plate bearing the name _HOSPITALIER ODONOGRAPH_ was affixed to one side.

Attached to the odonograph via insulated cable was another apparatus, one of Tesla's inventions. Long black cords terminating in electrodes emerged from its various orifices. True to his word, overnight Tesla had created a crude electroencephalograph.

'Looks like what you'd get if a toaster mated with an octopus,' Chance sent, causing Christopher to suffer a sudden coughing spell.

When Christopher had recovered, Tesla began to affix the electrodes to Christopher's scalp and forehead with small pieces of surgical tape.

"Try to breathe normally while we're running the test," Tesla said. "A cough or a sneeze distorts the pattern. Now, yesterday you indicated you can each…put your awareness to sleep, as it were, leaving the other without interference. I will record a pattern with first one of you asleep, then the other. Which of you wishes to go first?"

"Me," Chance said before Christopher could reply. "Nighty-night, Christopher."

"Go suck an egg."

"Lie down, try to relax, but don't drift off. Here we go."

The drum made a soft whirring sound when set in motion. The pen-nib produced a scratching noise. After a few minutes, Tesla stopped the drum and tore off a length of paper. He handed it to lefty.

"Please mark this one Christopher Chance-A. Now, then. Let's have Christopher Chance-B emerge."

"Here I am," Christopher said.

Tesla restarted the drum. After another short time, he stopped it, tore off the paper and gave it to Lefty.

"Just for curiosity, why don't you take a reading with both of us awake," Chance said.

"Very well."

Tesla started the drum. The pen began sweeping wildly over the paper. After a moment, Tesla lifted the pen and shut down the drum.

"Dear me, that hasn't happened before. I must contact Dr. Berger and ask if he's encountered any similar phenomena."

'I'm not a bettin' man,' Christopher sent, 'but five'll getcha ten he hasn't even come close."

**… … … … … …**

Tesla excused himself and went into his office, taking the charts with him. Christopher, unnerved by the Tesla coil's frequent discharges, led the way to foyer to wait.

"So how come everyone gets so antsy around Tesla?" Chance asked Lefty. "Why'd you quit working with him - apart from the projector you…borrowed, I mean."

Lefty sighed. "I d'know. Things just kept getting weird. Peculiar. Too much for me, so I split for greener pastures."

"Peculiar how?" Christopher asked.

"Just…peculiar. Things'd disappear. Then come back again, only…changed a little. Some of those tools in that locked case - did you see 'em? They started out as screw drivers or maybe a wrench, that sort of thing. They don't look like any tools I've ever seen anymore."

Chance had noticed, but only one item struck him as any more peculiar than the rest of the things littering Tesla's office. One device looked suspiciously like a miniature Maglight flashlight that had started to melt. He'd decided it couldn't be what he imagined.

"And that spooked you?"

"Maybe not so much as…other things. When he was in Colorado, a magician hired Tesla to make a machine for him to use in his show. You know everything they do is some kind of trick. He wanted something that would instantly send him from one side of the stage to the other."

Oh, Chance thought, a transporter beam. Beam me up, Scotty.

"A matter transmitter, Nik-o called it. Only it never worked right. What it did was make a duplicate of whatever was sent, so now you got two, one at point A, one at point B. Only the one at point A, if it was a living thing, wasn't alive any more. It wasn't so bad when it was a goldfish or something, but if you tried it with a human…."

Nope, not a transporter beam, a fax machine. One that killed the original.

"Chance," Christopher said, "what happens to you, once he separates us?"

"Don't worry about that. He hasn't said he can do it."

Tesla entered the foyer as Chance spoke. "Oh, but I believe I can."

Tesla glanced at his watch. Chance followed his gaze. If it wasn't the same watch Baptiste possessed, it was an exact duplicate. Maybe one that had passed through the killer fax machine.

"It's growing late and I have much to do to prepare," Tesla said. "Come back tomorrow and I will be ready to proceed."

**… … … … …**

'I'm starting to know this route by heart,' Chance sent as once again the men rode the street-car back to town. 'Next time bring a book.'

'With any luck tomorrow will be our last ride. I'll be going home and you'll be - Chance, I'm not so sure about this. There's no telling what'll happen to you.'

'What we need to do is figure out how you're going to disappear and make everyone think you die,' Chance sent. 'We'll work on it tonight. Find a way to make it look real. You have two years to set it all up. You'll need to train your successor, pick someone good. Maybe Mike Tilghman. I never saw a man drink that much beer and not have to be carried home.'

'Has a hollow leg, he does,' Christopher sent, 'and a dandy right cross.'

'Then you disappear,' Chance continued. 'That won't be too difficult in this era - no credit card receipts, no Social Security numbers, no cell-phone records…."

'No Internet.'

'I thought you thought I made that up.'

'I'm still not convinced you weren't pullin' me leg a wee bit with that.'

Christopher had simply refused to believe Chance's attempt to explain the basics of the World Wide Web. Tesla, on the other hand, had grasped the concept instantly.

After a time, Christopher sent, 'I'm thinkin' we'll go to Alaska. I always did want to try me hand at minin' gold.'

'It gets _cold_ in Alaska.' Chance gave a mental shudder. 'Besides, you'd look ridiculous in a bushy beard and sealskin hat. Go to California. Buy real estate. There's more gold in oceanside properties than in all the mines of California and Alaska combined.'

'Or maybe make motion pictures. Word is, talkies are the comin' thing. With Althea's voice and looks, she'd be a knock-out on the screen.'

'I've got an idea. Whether it's Hollywood or the gold fields, let me know you succeeded. Put an ad in the _San Francisco __Chronicle_. Something easy to spot in the archives…"Sorry I missed you, see you next time I pass through", like that. Don't sign it, though, in case someone's suspicious or trying to trace you.'

Christopher shook his head. 'Anyone might run a notice saying that. Here's a better idea. I owe ya for helpin' me prove Humphrey's guilt. Say fifty dollars gold. We'll pick a place - a landmark that exists in my time and yours, and bury it in a tin or a jar. When you're home, go look for it. If you find it - or if you don't - then you'll know.'

Chance considered. 'Okay, that'll work. But in my time, gold's a little conspicuous. Save it for your honeymoon. Fill that jar with quarters, dimes, silver dollars, whatever you have. The less circulated, the better. Won't cost you much, but those coins will be worth a fortune in Twenty-ten.'

'Where shall I hide it, then?'

Chance thought for a moment. 'Golden Gate Park. The Francis Scott Key monument. Southwest corner.'

'Sounds like a plan.'

'Now you're starting to sound like me.'


	12. Chapter 12

8

CHAPTER 12

New Kensington, Pennsylvania  
>Saturday, August 22<br>1925

When they returned on Saturday, the bunker was deserted, every machine but the Tesla coil shut down and silent. Each step they took echoed as they accompanied Tesla to the far end of the bunker. After a few paces it sounded as if an invisible army marched in their wake.

The examination table and EEG had been moved closer to the Tesla coil. The coil buzzed with surplus energy, humming as if possessed by a merry goblin. Beside the coil, on a second cart, stood a device Chance and Christopher hadn't seen before.

Lefty had. "That's the matter transmitter!"

The one that left corpses scattered around the countryside.

Chance felt his flesh chill. "Oh, shit," Christopher said.

"It began as that matter transmitter," Tesla admitted. "I've made some alterations and adjustments to adapt it to our present needs." He gestured at the table. "Please have a seat."

Chance seated himself on the table and Tesla began attaching electrodes.

"So, how's it work, Nik-o?" Lefty asked. "The kindergarten version."

Tesla sighed. Chance got the distinct impression the inventor would have rolled his eyes if he didn't consider such a gesture beneath his dignity. He continued attaching electrodes as he spoke.

"The EEG will transmit the pattern produced when both Chance and Christopher are fully alert. The matter transmitter is set to collect the energy producing the pattern we wish to remove."

"Wait a minute," Christopher said. "I still want to know what'll happen to Chance once he's…removed. Where's that transmitter going to send him?"

"Into the ether whence he came," Tesla said. "The distance is set to infinity - "

"Oh no you don't," Christopher said, struggling to jump from the table. Chance yanked him back into place. "I won't have him thrown away like so much rubbish - "

"Let me finish," Tesla said, holding up one hand. "I have long been convinced the difficulty in accomplishing time travel lies in my theory that the frequency at which our atoms vibrate is what anchors us to our own place in time. When he separates from you, it is quite probable his natural vibration will draw him directly to his own time."

"And if not?" Christopher asked.

Now Tesla looked very grave. "I truly do not wish to contemplate the results. You must be absolutely certain you are willing to risk whatever transpires. You, Chance, might very well become what is commonly termed a ghost. I have no method to test the functionality. It will either work…or it will not."

"But it will leave Christopher's mind sound?" Chance asked. "It won't send part of him along with me by mistake?"

"I do not believe it will harm Christopher in any way. His mind is in harmony with his body's natural vibrations, which are in harmony with this time period. It should repel your mental energy as water repels oil."

Chance stretched out on the table. "Then we'll do it. One thing. Set the distance dial for something a little closer, like San Francisco."

"No we won't do it," Christopher said, struggling to rise. "I won't risk murdering a friend."

"I'm no friend," Chance said. "I'm a trespasser. A parasite. You said it yourself, remember?"

"Just the same."

"You'd rather spend the rest of your life with me riding around in your head? What about Althea? You think she'd stand for me looking on while the two of you - "

"Gentlemen!" Tesla interrupted, "this is no time to argue. Either we go forward, or we do not."

"Do it," Chance said, "and don't concern yourself with any consequences to me."

Only once, during their initial adjustment to each other, had Chance needed to forcibly restrain Christopher's persona. Now Christopher fought furiously, determined to seize control. Keeping Christopher's mind from reclaiming his body was like trying to hold an over-inflated beach ball under water one-handed.

"Stop fighting me, dammit," Chance said, "or so help me, I'll toss you into the ether and keep Althea for myself."

Christopher abruptly stopped struggling. "Have it your way, then."

Chance felt the matter transmitter's pull as Tesla increased power. It was as if the device were plucking threads of his consciousness one by one from Christopher's body. The transmitter's whine increased and his surroundings began to shimmer, then turn transparent. He could see through Tesla's body as the inventor studied gauges and adjusted dials. Then he could see through the bunker's walls to the surrounding grounds, the vegetation, the low hills beyond. He could feel himself seeping from Christopher's body like water sucked from a sponge.

Tesla grasped a red-handled switch and slammed it full open. The Tesla coil sprayed a great gout of plasma, silvery blue in the bunker. A tremendous crackle shattered the air. Chance was yanked free from Christopher's body and for a moment hovered like a drifting balloon above Christopher, Lefty, and Tesla. Then the matter transmitter snatched him from the bunker and hurled him into the unknown.

* * *

><p>The Light glowed like a billion candles shimmering through a glaze of frost, a beacon in the star-filled darkness surrounding him. The same Light he remembered from the few moments after the wreck when the charge from the power cable ripped him from his body. He willed himself toward it eagerly.<p>

"Conrad."

His old alias. A woman's voice. It stopped him like he'd struck an invisible wall.

"Katherine?"

A happy laugh. "It's me."

Chance surged toward her, caught her in his arms and crushed her to him. He marveled at how solid she felt, how warm and feminine. How delicious she tasted when he kissed her.

So it _was_ true. You do go to the Light when you die. Your friends and loved ones meet you. He looked around for Gramps, for Christopher-04, into whose shoes he'd stepped seven years ago.

"They're not here now," Katherine said. "It's not your time yet. I was sent to help you return to your body."

He felt like she'd slapped him. "No. No, won't go back. I want to start over. I want you with me."

She laid her palm on his cheek as if to soothe the imagined slap, and shook her head.

"That isn't how it's meant to be. When it's your time, if you still want me, I'll be waiting. So will your Gramps, and Christopher-04, and anyone else who matters."

They were in a hospital room, and he hadn't even noticed how they got there. His body lay on a bed, wired to a forest of monitors, an IV drip in one arm.

"I don't even have a good crop of whiskers," Chance said, gazing at his own face. "How long since I got zapped?"

"A little over twenty-four hours."

"Twenty-four - But I was gone almost two weeks. Damn! Tesla did it! He sent me to my own time, almost to the day! Christopher! Did he survive the separation? Well, of course he did, he didn't die for another two years. Did he pull it off? Was he able to fake his death?"

No answer. He was talking to empty air. Katherine was gone.

Before his heart could begin to ache anew, he felt a peculiar tug. Guerrero had entered his hospital room, closed the door, and blocked it with a chair. What the hell?

Amazed, Chance watched Guerrero kneel at his bedside.

"So help me, dude, if you're faking this to get some R and R, or sympathy or something, you won't live long enough to tell anyone what you're about to hear." He took a deep breath and bowed his head. "Our Father who art in heaven…."

Another tug, painfully sharp. It felt like a hooked trout must feel as a fisherman reels it in. He tried to relax, let himself drift with the powerful pull. Guerrero murmured, his voice soft in the background. The monitors beeped. Then, with a sound like a cork imploding into a champagne bottle, he was sucked into his physical body.

* * *

><p>SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA<p>

(the following morning)

"It was a _dream_," Winston said with unshakable conviction when Chance finished telling his story.

The hospital had released Chance that morning and although it was early for lunch, he demanded pizza. They were all seated at the conference table, polishing off the last few slices from two boxes of extra large, extra cheese, extra pepperoni pizza.

"It could have been real," Chance said. "You told me I was flat-lining until I just suddenly woke up."

Ilsa shuddered. "We were so certain we'd lost you. We were so terribly worried."

"Ya were, huh?" He aimed his little boy grin directly at her and watched the color rise in her cheeks.

"A little more than twenty-four hours," Winston persisted. "_Not_ over a week."

"If Tesla created a time machine," Ames said, "how come we're not all, like, flitting back and forth from one year to another? Why hasn't someone stopped Booth or Oswald or Hitler?"

"I'd guess Tesla never knew for sure what happened." Chance shrugged. "The matter transmitter never worked right. Once he used it to…extract me, he probably never used it again. Certainly not for the same purpose. Maybe he needed it for something else and modified it so much it never produced the same effect."

"Perhaps," Ilsa said, "he did know. And the thought of what might happen if the wrong sort of people were able to change the past terrified him. So much so he destroyed the device and never published his findings."

He used it again," Guerrero said. "In 1943. The Philadelphia experiment."

Chance was surprised Guerrero knew about the Philadelphia experiment. He referred to a disastrous attempt during World War II to teleport the destroyer U.S.S. Eldritch from the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard to Norfolk Virginia, some 200 miles away. Although the Navy never admitted the event occurred, an ever-dwindling handful of sailors who survived the experiment were still alive and swore to the truth of it.

"No…," Chance said, recalling the device Tesla had given away, "I think that might have been Lefty."

Guerrero shook his head. "No, dude, it was Tesla. Lionel Carruso died in 1932." Every head at the table swiveled. Four pairs of eyes zeroed in on Guerrero. He hunched his shoulders. "He was my great uncle. Or great-great. Whatever. He died in some kind of explosion, in 1932."

"I'll be damned," Chance murmured.

"So, was Christopher-27 able to, like, fake his death?" Ames asked. "Did Althea become a movie star? Would you recognize her? I have a book about old movie stars - Mae West, Marlene Dietrich, the really old ones."

"I'm not sure," Chance said, "but I know how to find out if they made it to California."

**… … … … … … … …**

Just after one A.M., Ilsa's limousine whispered to a stop a few yards beyond the De Young Museum in Golden Gate Park. The park was in darkness. A power-outage had just occurred, thanks to Guerrero's tinkering with PG & E's main computer. They had about fifteen minutes before anyone got wise to what had happened, a little longer before they figured out how to correct it.

Five passengers emerged, one of whom removed something from the trunk. The limousine glided away to linger in some obscure cul-de-sac until summoned.

Winston detached himself from the group and strolled over to a bench, ready to warn the others if someone approached. It didn't seem likely. Not only was the park blacked out, it was cold tonight.

A salt-scented breeze blew in intermittent gusts, setting park vegetation shivering. It carried swirls of fog in from the bay and dropped them on dry land to decompose. A roosting bird, disturbed by the unusual activity, uttered several protesting squawks, then fell silent as the small group continued on.

"This place reminds me of a cemetery, " Ames said, zipping her jacket. No one disagreed. "We should've brought a picnic basket," she said after a few more paces. "For, like, in case we get caught."

"Keep quiet," Guerrero said, "and no one will notice us. If you want something to carry, take this." He handed her the shovel he'd slung over one shoulder.

Chance didn't need his flashlight to find the Francis Scott Key monument. Its travertine base glowed an eerie white despite the absence of any nearby street lights. Set only a stone's throw from the museum's looming black bulk, it soared fifty feet skyward, its double arches sheltering a seated bronze statue of Francis Scott Key, and supporting a tall female figure said to represent America.

He said nothing as they halted beside the monument, his thoughts focused on the men who had borne his name before him. The silver coins - proof Christopher-27 had outwitted Fate if they were there, proof he had failed if they were not - would be cached at the south-west corner of the monument. Chance handed Ilsa the flashlight, took the shovel from Ames, and began to dig.

* * *

><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE:<p>

I was going to let the story stop here. I couldn't decide on a satisfactory ending. There were just too many possibilities and variables. It seemed better to let each reader draw his/her own conclusions as to whether CC-27 escaped his fate.

As I was about to publish this chapter with no specific ending, the spirit of CC-27 reached across time to borrow my pen and leave the following communiqué for Chance to find:

_Dear Christopher Chance,_

_I hope this missive finds you sound of mind and safely back in your own body. It seems a bit lonesome without you always pestering me to drive the Model T._

_You were right about Althea. The woman played me for a fool. She laughed in my face when I proposed. Just as well. I've heard she eloped with Tommy Jergensen and went off to Hollywood to make movies. Changed her name to Greta Garbo, or so they say. In any event, she's long gone from me life, and good riddance._

_When I went to speak with Mike T_ about possibly helping me disappear, Hazel - you remember the receptionist at Pinkertons, the one you said was "hot" - overheard us plotting. She asked to be allowed to join in our little deception. A fine, sharp lass the lady is and an asset to our small company. More than that, Hazel says she will do me the honor of becoming my wife once we're settled. Lefty will join us once he and Mike have arranged for my "remains" to be identified._

_We intend to follow your advice and invest in real estate. In the mean time, I've left me old name to Mike and adopted another that I'd probably best not reveal. We'll stay on in San Francisco. I've met a PI by name of Sam Spade who's looking for a new partner. He's a bit rough around the edges, but seems a decent enough sort. I'm joining up with him, at least for a time._

_You've read, I suppose, of the terrible explosion that took the life of Dapper Dan Hogan. For the record, Lefty was not involved._

_May the road rise to meet you; may the wind be always at your back,  
>May the sun shine warm upon your face; the rains fall soft upon your fields and,<br>Until we meet again, May God hold you in the palm of His hand._

_And may your soul rest in Heaven half an hour before the devil knows you're dead!_

(signed)

_Your brother, _

_C._

THE END

* * *

><p>FINAL AUTHOR'S NOTE:<p>

Thank you for reading my story-or at least the final chapters. I hope if you skipped the intervening chapters you will go back now and read those, too.

I am aware the Francis Scott Key monument has been moved from where it stood in the 1920s. I chose to ignore that small discrepancy. Apart from that, I tried very hard to use buildings that existed in 1925, use historic characters who lived in 1925, and with the exception of one or two of Tesla's inventions, mention only objects actually in use in that era. The magician's device Tesla invented is borrowed from a book, later a movie, entitled _The Prestige_, by Christopher Priest.

The story line is based on two real murders that took place in St. Paul during its gangster years. Nina Clifford was a real person - a madam for over 40 years. Budd Manufacturing is still a going concern under a different name, and Nikola Tesla worked there for a time. Did the Philadelphia experiment Guerrero mentions happen? Conspiracy theorists believe it did.

Thank you all so very much for your many kind comments regarding this story. Most of you are excellent writers yourselves, and your approval means more to me than you could ever guess.

Scarlet Garter.


End file.
